


Sundown Cafe

by TheGirlInTheB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fantasy AU, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Children, Monsters, Police Brutality, Sex eventually, Violence, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-07-21 06:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGirlInTheB/pseuds/TheGirlInTheB
Summary: Officer Phil Coulson is a cop working a beat until he's suddenly stabbed. He should have died, and maybe he did; after all the life he had before is gone and he can't seem to shake the cold in his chest.Clint Barton is a café owner and a mutt of a Night Thing. And lately there's been a string of disappearances in the city. Clint's getting tired of people going missing and the cute human cop who's been coming around his café is tired of desk duty.





	1. A cold Knife

The knife had slid in between his ribs, so cold it was steaming, so cold it froze the cry from his lips as hot blood seeped into his shirt and ended his 12 years on the force. Officer Phil Coulson wasn't really sure what happened to him that night, only that his vision was awash in blue, his bones cold pillars of ice as all the warmth fled from him in the touch of a blade. 

'You have heart' 

He hadn't expected it -getting stabbed that is -investigating a small robbery in the early hours of the morning, but there he was in a jewelry store. Bleeding to death.

His attacker was never caught. 

Looking back he was sure he'd died that night; he should have if you listen to his surgeon, but more than that his life, as he knew it, was over. No more chasing perps or hunting cases. Phil was on strict bedrest and from there a life behind a desk.   
He felt like a specter in his own skin. Half the cop he was before the stabbing. His once partner, the man who'd found him and saved his life, Jasper was just happy Phil hadn't really checked out for good on him. He even made sure to bring Phil some of his favorite donuts every week -the chocolate and the powdered sugar kind. 

But it wasn't the same. 

Phil thought he ought to have been happier that he'd survived. 

Still; Coulson would wake in the night freezing -certain he could see his own breath in the dimness of his apartment -, his heart leaping like a frantic deer against his ribs. His dreams all bathed in blue. Or else Phil's left arm would go numb during the day -his fingers cold and stiff around the pen in his hands. No amount of coffee could chase the chill.   
He'd seen every doctor May had sent him to. Seen every specialist his boss Fury had offered up. No matter the professional they all said the same thing. 

'You've suffered a traumatic near death event, Officer Coulson, and you made it through. Physically you're healthy, but it may take longer for your mind to believe it.' 

Great. 

'It's all in my head' he tells himself as he clutches a hot water bottle to his chest each night, 'I'm not cold, I'm fine'. 

But Phil’s not fine. And no matter how many hot showers or warm drinks or heavy blankets the cold remains just between his ribs where the knife had once been. 

So; sleepless nights had got him reading, working and finally walking. Walking was easier because it helped Phil stay in shape after all the desk work he'd been given post-death. And it was good to see the city again. It's not like it had changed much in the year without him but...he'd missed it anyway. Really he had. Life at a desk was not agreeing with him. 

Each night Phil would pick a different rout and meander through the streets. May and Jasper would call him a fool -ask if he wanted some company, or if he was looking to get stabbed again if they knew. But he didn't want the company or them knowing. Didn't want to get stabbed either if he's being honest. The nights were his and Phil had set his watch to make sure he got back home and got just enough sleep to make it through the day. He still had a few PT appointments and he'd just make sure to pick a shorter rout on Tuesdays and Thursdays. 

1am. 

The glowing face of the watch blinks up at him. He's maybe got another hour before turning around and heading home to his empty apartment. Tonight's rout took Phil a little farther than he meant to but it was good. The night air crisp against his face reddens his cheeks and does nothing for the biting cold in his ribs. It rained earlier this evening and the ground's still damp with shallow puddles and dripping eves. He presses onward. 

The part of town Phil had found himself in was not as well patrolled and a few times in his trek he regretted not staying in a more well-traveled part of the city. It's not exactly easing his anxiety. A streetlamp overhead buzzes noisily, sputtering, flickering and giving out plunging Phil's patch of sidewalk into a still darkness. Great. 

The sound of scuffling feet behind him makes Phil whirl -a little more on edge here in the sudden dark. He nearly died once; and despite what May or Jasper or even Fury might say, he's not looking for death here on his walks. The scuffling stops, like whatever it is realized it's been noticed and fell quiet, Phil's breath is a waiting thing in his chest. He's got a hand on his sidearm. 

Nothing. 

A slight breeze pulls at his jacket from the mouth of an alleyway he was sure wasn't there before. A slide glance tells Phil it's no better lit then the street here. Silhouette of trash bins and damp brick and wires peer back at him in the dim.   
The scuffling returns as slow, steady footsteps coming his way and Phil's heart lurches cold and burning again. He can feel a fine sweat break on his brow and that slight breeze tugs just that little bit more.

'Come' it says. 

In a flash Phil's decision is made. He's in the alleyway pressing along in the dark past grimy bins and damp cardboard boxes and broken glass, fighting his way through, fighting his way to be quiet and to put enough distance between him and whoever is out there -his head swirling with possibilities while still whispering that he's being silly. No one is out there. No one's coming to get him. And wind doesn't call people. He's a police officer, damn it, not a frightened -,  
A string of lights strung up high on the bricks blinks on; a soft yellow-white glow blunts the darkness at its edges and leads the way to the end of the alley. For a moment Phil dares a glance back, but nothing's behind him. Just the puddles and the dark, empty street. 

Fantastic. 

This is stupid. Beyond stupid. Coulson should go back -back to the road and his apartment and his bed and just quit these little night walks of his. He has PT in the morning. He has better things to do than go waltzing around the city. 

'Come' the breeze whispers, brushing past his ankles. 

Phil looks towards the end of the alley lit only by the Christmas lights. It's strange. He's sure there hadn't even been an alley here before. 

'Come'. 

The street he steps out into is tight; like the buildings, all cheek-by-jowl, are wrestling for space. Deep puddles hug the creases of the cobbled stones beneath Phil's feet. The glass windows of the neighboring shops are blackened and their doorways shut except for the little cafe near the center. 

The big arching windows at the front of the restaurant pools light warm and welcoming into the street -the stain glass designs at the tops make funny colours in the cobble stones. Little fireflies dance and huddle around the lamp hanging from the wall by the round oak door -the awning a forest green. There's no patio furniture here, but a small stone fence separates the shop from the walkway with oval shaped stone posts at the gate. Each post has a face carved into it with open mouths and thick beeswax candles lit inside; the statues peer out at Phil in night.

As Coulson walks closer he notices a small bowl of what looks to be milk and a thick slice of cheese left out by the front step. 

Odd.

There's a sign up by the door on a folded chalk board written in neat blocky scrawl. 

'No Shirt   
No Shoes  
No Thank you   
Service' 

Phil's brow creases, but he's curious at this point and eager to get off the street. 

The door handle under his hands is warm, like it's reacting to his skin, or the cold in his fingers, but it swings open easily jostling a set of large copper bells over the doorframe making them clank and sing. Phil's not sure he wanted that much attention coming in but the cafe isn't crowded. There’s a small row of black and white printed papers tacked up to the wood wall in the entryway; the photographs of grinning people let Phil know that they’ve gone missing.   
The little doorway he's in ends in two stone steps and a large warm, polished hardwood floor. The cafe is open with red-seated booths against the walls and front windows. 

The main floor is open except for a few large wooden tables and a yawning stone fireplace at the far wall. The wood on the hearth is real casting the restaurant in warmth and a comforting soot smell. A long wooden bar with stain glass cut into the wood awning shines in the lamp light. Up on the wall hangs a bow.

A carved pumpkin sits grinning a toothy smile at him -it's a little early for Halloween. 

A few women sit at the booths near the fire place, they haven't even looked up from their drinks to glance at Phil as he came in. A young woman at the bar has though, and Phil decides he's come this far he should at least order something and quit taking up space by the door. 

She's a young thing with long black hair covering her ears and spilling over her shoulders like silk. The purple shirt she's wearing doesn't have a nametag but a white arrow stitched over the breast. 

"What can I getcha?" She asks -she's not brisk but to the point. Her face tells Coulson she's in a good mood but not up for any nonsense. Phil wants to say her teeth are a little more pointed then the flat spade-like bite most people have but a better look tells him his eyes are playing games. Coulson ought to just decline, turn around and leave. Go home, Phil. 

"Anything hot and decafe." He regrets the decafe but knows better. It's 1:30am already and he still needs a few hours at least with closed eyes. 

"You sure? Still pretty early." She offers, eyebrows scrunched in a way that makes her look younger. Phil snorts and shakes his head. Decafe is fine. 

He's busy inspecting the well-polished dark wood of the bar when a clatter comes from the kitchens and a door swings open with a stunning young man carrying a large platter of bowls and steaming cups. 

"Don't drop them -!" The woman's words are firm but friendly where they filter through the door. 

"I won't drop them, Wanda!" His voice grumbling but deep below is a laugh waiting to be born. Like he's had this argument before with the kitchen staff. 

The man's hair is gold and spikey, styled to frame his warm face. Phil swears he sees downy soft feathers tucked along the back as the fine gold hair tapers thin towards tan skin. He's got a small apron on, purple with that white arrow, and a white t-shirt pulled tight over well-defined arms and shoulders. 

The man walks with a sort of grace as he stops in front of the first table of older women. They smile and chuckle as he says something kind, passing them bowls of warm soup and a mug or two of steaming coffee. 

"A hot cup of tea -decafe." The lady at the bar is setting down a small mug of hot tea. It smells like summertime and warm peaches and cinnamon. "Enjoy." 

He goes to say thank you but the words halt in his head like he can't find the phrase he's looking for, "You too." He stumbles out awkwardly. Great. 

The young lady smiles anyway and leaves Coulson to his drink. 

Phil cups his hands around the mug and lets it warm his skin before taking a small sip. The drink warms him from the inside out -even bites back at some of the cold inside him for a moment and Phil wants to weep with relief.  
He realizes he's taken his eyes off the stunning server that's already swept his way around the room to visit the few other patrons sitting quietly reading their papers. Phil really does try not to stare but the waitress's voice makes him realize he's clutching the mug to his freezing chest like it's the only heat he has. 

"That is some curse," She says the words like they make sense.

"I'm sorry, what?" Phil must have heard her wrong, she must be talking about something else, he's already turning to look back at her. 

"Kate," The golden-haired man scolds on his way past the bar, "Let a guy have his drink." 

She sticks her tongue out at him and goes back to the till. 

"You new around?" The waiter asks. His eyes sharp and piercing but friendly and Phil thinks he might be embarrassing himself by staring. It's been too long since his last date and a whole flock of butterflies take wing in Phil's gut. 

"No -I guess I just never saw this place before -thought I should check it out." He tries to make stumbling through a dark grimy alley at 1am sound casual. 

"Great. I'm Clint Barton -I run the place." Clint offers a warm worn hand which Phil takes in his cold fingers. The cafe owners palms are rough -not from ages of steaming dish water or heaving crates of stock -but of holding a weapon. Of living rough. 

“Phil Coulson.” Phil wonders what Clint did with himself before the café as he offers his own name and a strong handshake. 

"Kate runs the place," Says the voice from the kitchen -turns out it belongs to another young woman; enchanting with long wavy chestnut hair and an exasperated look in her dark eyes. She's joined Kate at the till, "You just barley keep it from burning down." 

"Hey, I am great at running things." Clint sounds wounded, his hand still grasping Phil's. 

"Kate runs things." Wanda assures Phil as she collects last week's paystub and walks back towards the kitchens. 

The young man looks a little pink in the cheeks and Phil thinks he sees the dusty speckled feathers in Clint's hair ruffle. They seem clearer somehow -like he had been looking at Clint through a veil before but now could see those pricing eyes of his, gold and tinged green.

Feathers? 

Phil really must be more tired than he thought, but he smiles at the sheepish look Clint's casting him anyhow. Weird visions aside he's glad he came. 

"Well, I'll let you enjoy your drink. Come by again sometime, Coulson." The young man smiles before heading back towards the kitchen. Phil finds himself nodding and already thinking of his next nightly walk and how another warm drink might even help him chase some of the cold away. 

Seeing the cute cafe owner wouldn't hurt either. 

The small clock behind the bar rings lightly marking two am. Crap. With PT in the morning and a long walk back home, Phil needs to be going. 

He quickly drinks the rest of his tea and places a few bills on the bar before thanking Kate who smiles at him as he heads for the door.   
The bells chime as he opens the door back out in the cool night air -instantly missing the warmth of the fire and the mug in his hands. For a moment Phil wonders how he's going to make it back to his place, shuffling through the alleyway again, but the street beyond the stone fence looks different than it did when he came. 

Now Phil prides himself in being an observant man, and he was sure that there was not an open roadway out of this little shopping street. But there it was; cobbled stones leading back towards a well-used public road. An early morning delivery truck rumbles past the mouth of the street and Phil can just make out the distant howl of sirens -the city still alive in the coming morning. The alleyway he'd come through half an hour ago yawns dark and maybe even tighter and smaller than it had been. Like it was saying 'don't even bother'. 

Phil stares a moment, really looks, because so many things about tonight just didn't make much sense. But he's tired, it's 2:15am, the warmth of the drink is still heating him and he thinks he might even get some sleep when he finally hits his bed. 

Shrugging the ally aside, Phil steps past the stone fence and their post-like guardians and into the street back towards the main road. Behind him, the little bugs huddling around the light twitter around pointed teeth and black gums; they grin, waving him goodbye. 

< \-----------------------------<<<<<<<

The café had closed up easy; Clint set the seals and locks himself with a soft whistle and a hum of a few bars to act as a catalyst. 

“Will I find you when the night is over, tell me where did you go? I’ve been searching high and low, I have only ‘till the night is over. When the night is done you’ll vanish in the sun,” The magic is warm and bright in his chest as Clint’s will pours forth, whistling back to him with the smell of blue skies and fresh straw and coffee. Soon the sun will be up and the shop and its street will melt away with the shadows like it was never there. 

“We’re running low on groceries.” Wanda reminds as she picks up the now empty saucer left out in the night. The flock of Pixies hanging around the lamps had picked the offering clean –they’ve gone now though, fled from the coming dawn. 

“Thought we got our shipment Saturday?” Clint says as Wanda places a few magic wards of her own to prop up Clint’s meager magic skills. The low stone wall and its pillars glow scarlet and warm like coals on a hearth –each pillar closing its mouth, the candles snuffing out in a trickle of smoke. She may be a young Witch searching for a Coven of her own, but she’s growing; her fingers weaving the signs and symbols. 

Clint had offered her a job knowing her skills, but without a Coven she was a Witch alone. At least at the café she had people. 

“We’re out.” She only offers once the rocks have cooled. 

“Groceries, no,” Clint groans, rubbing a tired hand over his face before saying “I guess I’ll pick them up on my way in tomorrow.” 

Out here, the ‘NO THANK YOU’ spell the café is under isn’t there to guard her words and tie up her tongue if she slips, so Wanda only nods. Thanking a Sidhe–even a partial one like Clint –is considered dangerous to one’s health.   
Clint smiles at a good night’s work and at meeting Phil Coulson –the man with the curse between his ribs – as he folds his human glamour over himself before stepping out into the street. He really hopes Phil will come back, but it’s a thought that will have to wait. Clint’s booking it back to his apartment just before the sun really rises. There aren’t too many humans out here and none that would stop to get a good look at the creature hurrying along beneath the street lamps winking out one by one. Still, better be safe than sorry. 

For the Night folk, being found out is a big no-no. Most people didn’t believe in real magic or the things that lived under beds and they’d shrug it off if they saw one –a trick of the eye of course. Sure times had changed, but that one rule had stayed. And anyone with a lick of sense followed it or found themselves removed.   
And with Clint’s luck, the dawn he’d forget his glamour is the dawn he’d run into a Hunter. 

The apartment complex is run down and creaky, but it’s home. Unlike Kate, a pure blood Sidhe in Summer’s Court, Clint has none of his own. No knowe to call home, just a regular rundown apartment. Not that the Sidhe would ever have a mutt like Clint; Kate’s powerful bloodline kept her safe and protected. His cast him out.   
Clint’s taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator is far too slow –the last place he needs to be at sun-up is in a metal box. The first light of a new day could burn through simple Sidhe magic, wear it out, wear it down. Something like the easy glamour Clint’s thrown on would never survive.

The dawn’s light slips its fingers across the sky as Clint hurriedly hums a few lines at his front door while he fusses with his keys. Already he can feel his skin prickling. 

‘They can’t change the locks, don’t let them change your mind’ He singings, his words breathing out the magic with the smell of sweet straw and rich coffee. 

He barely has time for the deadbolt to slide back when the first rays of a new day’s sun reach over the horizon. Clint’s skin pricks, his back hits the door and his glamour shudders, shying away from the morning. Two broad wings, brown and tipped with a rusty red of a hawk, tear free from his back, the shirt he wasn’t able to get off in time rips. His ears go pointed, and Clint feels the skin at his hands turn rough and his nails darken to sharp talons. 

And he hurts. 

He’s seen himself on the few occasions he’s bothered to look in a mirror. Like this Clint isn’t human; he looks like a predator, like a strange bastard mix between a hawk and a human –but with the Daoine Sidhe’s pointed ears, bright eyes and otherworldly fairness that is more haunting than beautiful. 

Stumbling through the small apartment, Clint tugs at his torn shirt –brown dappled wings flapping and reaching for the ceiling in their new freedom. The dawn leaves him aching and sore and miserable; it’s a miracle Clint’s made it to his bedroom without a wing nocking something over. 

Collapsing to the cool unmade nest of sheets, Barton decides to wait out the pain of the new day. The gains of being a mutt –part Sidhe, part bird shifter, maybe even a little harpy in there somewhere -are few and far between but the shortened and less intense dawn-pain is one of them. He doesn’t burn as badly at the touch of iron, either. And he can lie. 

Hooray for him. 

As the ache eases up and a busy night’s work catches up to him, Clint falls asleep in the early hours of a new day with the hopes of seeing that handsome cursed human again. 

The morning brings a light drizzle and heavy grey clouds that roll in and hug the sky as he reaches his PT appointment. Phil’s less tired than he should be, but his arm still tremors as he takes off his jacket and begins the session. 

"And twice more -reach all the way down to your toes." His physiotherapist prompts. She's kind -even when Phil is grumpy and sore. Phil is one of her better patients who actually does the exercises she assigns and that goes a long way. 

"Still having trouble sleeping?" She asks when they finish up. 

"Can't shake the cold." Phil admits, "Found this nice coffee shop, though." He reaches for a street name or even the name of the cafe but it comes up blank. Just the smell of peaches and cinnamon tea. He frowns, brow wrinkling slightly as he shrugs his jacket on over his shoulders with a bit of a flinch –he’s always a little tender after PT sessions, but it’s getting better.

"Well, try to take it easy on the late night strolls. Maybe talk to your doctor about sleep aids. There are some medications that won't leave you drowsy the next day." She offers and Phil nods along. He'd been asked about sleep pills a while back but had refused -he hadn't needed them before and he doesn't want to need them now. 

He'd slept surprisingly well once he'd gotten home and he hadn't dreamed of a blue-washed world at all. 

"Cheese!" Fury calls when Phil wanders in for his afternoon shift at the precinct. Phil Coulson and Nick Fury had known one another since their academy days and Phil was happy to work under a good friend. "Got some new files for you on your desk -I need them back down to records by the end of the day." 

Most of the paperwork Phil does is backlog; it's nothing like his old job with Jasper but it pays.   
The files on his neat and tiny desk don't take him long to complete and he's glad for it, itching to get home and head out into the street to find that cafe and maybe, just maybe, have a chance to see Clint again.   
It’s been a good wile since Phil had something to look forward to that he’s clutching at it with both hands.   
But the last file has Coulson halting. It was a grizzly cold case from a month or two ago -a family killed in their home, a little girl missing and her parents found gutted in their small rundown apartment. The photographs are enough to turn Phil's stomach. Blood smears the floor and cold, lifeless eyes set deep in bloodless skin. The killer never found. The little girl never found.

And speckled feathers covering the apartment floor. Deep gashes in the linoleum tiles near where the woman lay sprawled. 

Gruesome. 

With no tips, no leads, no witnesses besides a little old woman downstairs who spoke only a handful of English the case had shriveled up and died. 

Phil takes a moment to stare at the smiling face of the little girl; little Eman had been nine years old in her school photograph –they always give out school photos. It's cases like these that Phil hates most. His left arm is starting to tremor again. Coulson trudges through filing the case and logging out of his computer before collecting his jacket and heading home with the weight of an unsolved case hanging about his shoulders. 

At least it wasn't raining. Phil makes a point to stop at his apartment, check his mail and dump a stale container of takeout that's been growing things at the back of his fridge before setting out on his walk. 

It's only just dusk -7pm and he's hitting the pavement. Phil's usual hours of operation are the very early morning, but he's eager to find Clint's place. Retracing his steps back to the dingy side street he'd fled from in the small hours, he looks along the walls of brick and boarded up windows to see the mouth of an alleyway no longer there. 

Gone. 

Phil feels along the stones, he walks up and down each side of the street, he even tries to look it up a map on his phone. 

Nothing. 

He must just have the wrong street. A simple mistake. 

Phil takes it one block at a time. Up and down he goes -every alleyway and nook and cranny peeked into and still nothing. The dusk has grown thicker, the sun tucking itself beneath the horizon into the night. The waxing three quarter moon   
taking over the wide sky above Phil's head. 

He's about to call it quits when someone bumps past him in the crowded sidewalk causing him to stumble. Phil catches the flash of blond hair and the smell of coffee and straw as a hand darts out to catch his arm. 

"Hey, sorry about -Phil?" Clint's warm voice washes over him and Phil finds himself smiling. The man in front of him is wearing a purple knit hat, though a few gold locks and downy feathers are peeking out. 

Feathers? 

Clint's got a beat-up jacket on and some jeans with a hole in the knee; one arm weighed down with brown paper bags all filled with groceries, the other outstretched to help Phil up. The cold ache in his chest seems to recede a little, Phil's hand coming up to rub at his frosty ribs. 

"Are you okay? I was just heading to the shop to open up for the night -didn't mean to run you down." Clint asks, eyeing Phil's hand with concern as he hefts the brown paper bags in his arms. 

"No, no, I'm fine. Really. I was actually on my way over but got a little turned around." Phil admits. A look flits over Clint's features fast and Phil almost misses the dawning understanding that dances in and out of the shop owner's eyes. Like he's seeing something for the first time. 

"Yeah, the place can be hard to find -it's kind of tucked away. Most people don't even know we're there." Clint says, "Why don't we head over together. I'll get you a drink -my treat." 

"You don't need to -," Phil starts. 

"Nope. I already offered. Don't even think of thanking me." Clint's eyes sparkle as he falls into step with Coulson, leading the way down the bustling street and towards the cafe.


	2. Traveling Circus

Once upon a time Clint was part of a traveling circus; Carson’s Wonders of the World. And he was one of those wonders -a little boy with pointed ears and wings. Just five pennies to see the freak-boy. Carson’s had other wonders too, other Night things, but Clint was the oddest. 

“The Good Neighbours are all about blood,” he hears Carson swear, “The purer the blood the more powerful. A little mutt like this wouldn’t be fit to set foot in the Summerlands.” 

But Clint knew that. 

That’s how he wound up caught and at Carson’s Wonders in the first place. And if it weren’t for that bow he surely would have stayed in his little cage as an attraction –only five pennies to see. 

But all that was a very, very long time ago.

< \------------------------------<<<<<

Clint, as it turns out, isn't bad at running things. Kate's already got the store open when they arrive but Clint's checking orders and filling a tall mug of cocoa for Phil with whipped cream, marshmallows and rainbow sprinkles -and a dash of warm liquor. He winks at the officer when he slides it down the bar and Phil's stomach flip-flops.  
The drink is hot and smooth and nips a little at the end where the liquor’s sharp taste bursts over his throat and tongue. It's perfect. Even the little sprinkles. The cold in Phil's chest starts to back off until he's left pleasantly warm. 

"How is it?" Clint returns, leaning against the bar as he sorts out clean glasses to be put away. 

"Wonderful," Phil says, trying to follow it up with a thanks but he can't get the word out so he leaves it. For the first time since he was stabbed Phil feels like he's found something good.

"Great," Clint grins, "looked like you could use some warming up." 

Yes, he really could. Phil smiles into his drink as Kate talks to Clint and a the cafe opens for business -the folded chalk sign is put out -the bells over the door jingle and chime as the first few early customers make their way in. Clint seats them, making his way past Phil –his body between the officer and the new patrons just hiding them from view -every now and then to flash a bright smile or offer more drinks. 

The fire burning in the hearth warms the room; the few customers who have come talk quietly and share drinks. The cafe smells of rich coffee and wood smoke and cream. 

And here, with Clint and a warm cup of cocoa, Phil is warm. 

Clint's working the bar tonight, eyes tracking the room before falling warmly onto Phil; chatting him up about everything and nothing and he listens eagerly –all his intense focus – to Phil's stories about work on the force and his recent stint of desk duty. 

"Job injury?" Clint asks, looking up from stocking new bottles of liquor on the shelf behind the bar. 

"Got stabbed." Phil sighs, taking another sip of topped-up cocoa –a shiver running up his left arm. Clint's face worries into concern. "It's fine, I'm fine...just miss the job. Miss my life, I guess." 

The cafe owner nods solemnly -behind him the little clock chimes 3am. And Phil wishes he could take those clock hands and turn them back so he could have more time with Clint. 

“Here,” The café owner says, slipping a business card across the polished surface of the bar, “in case you have trouble finding us again.” 

Phil smiles “I will.” He’s tongue ties up what was meant to be a ‘Thank you’ as he tucks the card away into his coat pocket. 

Clint’s grin lights up his face anyhow so Phil figures he must have understood.

<\-----------------------<<<<

"You seem happy." May smiles as she stops by his desk. 

"I don't see how -this is the second cold case I've logged this week." Phil grumbles, looking up from the stack of papers on his desk. Most of the backlog he's been handling is all petty crime and quick cases, but this one was another that, like little Eman's, was whittling away Phil's faith in humanity. 

A teenager; a boy –found with his chest caved in and his teeth knocked out. He’d fought, struggled –the bruising on his knuckles and skin under his nails proved that –but with all the broken ribs and chest cavity that looked like mincemeat it hadn’t ended well. 

The family had come that evening to identify the body and they quickly had a court order to release the remains so they could put him to rest. Phil remembers the boy’s mother dissolving into tears at the sight of her child laid out on that metal examiner’s table. 

But, like little Eman, nothing was found. His name was Michel; he’d just transferred to a new school and was at band practice –going home late after school. He never made it home. 

Any parent’s worst nightmare. 

"You were smiling when you came in." May accused. Phil had been. The memory of his night with Clint had spurred him through his Friday work hours. Of course now that he was staring at his second cold case with a child victim Phil's temper had soured. 

"That was a rough one." May eyes the file.

“Why can’t we get them all?” Phil asks but he knows the answer. He’s not the first cop to ask and he won’t be the last. 

“We do what we can –and we never stop searching.” May assures, “Come on. Jasper’s taking everyone out for drinks.” Phil tries to protest but May gives him a look that has him nodding and collecting his things for the evening. It will be good to spend time with his friends. 

The Princess Bar Jasper and Maria and Fury have staked out is packed –the game is on all the televisions –nachos and wings and beers already on the table. Phil and May push through the noise and the bodies and past petite servers carrying trays of empty plates. 

“Phil!” Jasper crows over the din, shoving over in the booth to let Coulson sit, “Thought you weren’t coming!” He has to shout. 

“May said you were buying.” Phil jabs and Sitwell tries to protest but the others at the table assure that they were told similar stories leaving the poor man with the tab. 

The table falls into chatter about work and sports teams and the cold encroaching weather the early fall was bringing –all hollered over the dull roar of rowdy sports fans. Maria passes Phil a plate of hot wings and nachos smothered in stringy cheese, peppers, bright salsa and greasy ground beef.

Phil’s on his second beer, a small waitress swings by their table to check on them when it happens; that cold stab right between his ribs, his heart clenching like a pulled muscle –his fingers trebling enough that he drops the half-full bottle to shatter on the restaurant floor. The waitress jumps aside in time to miss the spill, but Phil sees surprise in her aging face –crow’s feet taking root around her rounding emerald eyes. Her copper-brown curls do little to hide her misshapen ears or her thickening hands dry and chapped from years of work. 

“You’re all cold.” Her voice is whisper awe, her eyes on his chest sending fresh shivers up Phil’s sides. 

For a moment he just stares as the room erupts in whoops and howls that something was broken – the waitress’s face is as young and pretty as it had been when she arrived. Phil can feel his coworker’s eyes on him with a mix of concern and not-quite-pity and he’s gone. He excuses himself quickly mumbling something about needing fresh air or a bathroom or whatever. 

He’s out of their booth and through the crowd and out into the crisp fall night taking great lung-fulls of air and rubbing at his chest in tight circles begging warmth back into his skin. He can’t get the waitress’s face from his mind, because surely it  
had all been a trick of the light. Or he’s going crazy, that’s always an option. 

Phil thinks it’s about time he admitted to himself that something is very wrong. 

“This happen often?” Fury’s voice is a concerned rumble and Phil looks up to see his boss standing with him on the sidewalk. He knows Nick means the tremors and the cold. 

“Only sometimes,” Phil fibs, “PT-,”

“PT my ass, Cheese, this isn’t something doing your exercises are gonna fix.” Phil nods in a mix of defeat and understanding. He remembers the pain Fury still hides behind that eyepatch –remembers the day he lost his eye and how, at some point, Nick had realized that Advil wasn’t going to take the soreness away. 

“You need anything, Cheese, anything-,” 

“I need to get back to work.” Phil’s words are clipped and he doesn’t mean to be so short but…the patience on Nick’s face is a good sign he’s not taking it personally. “I need to stop looking at cold cases.” Phil sighs. 

“I can give you a few days off –a week,” Fury offers and he’s being so kind and gentle with him and Phil is so grateful but he can’t stand being coddled. 

“I need to work –I need to feel like I’m doing something again.” He assures and his boss –his friend –nods knowingly. 

“It gets bad -,” Fury fixes him with a look and amends, “it gets worse, and you tell me, Phil.” 

He’s a good friend. 

“I will.” Phil doesn’t want it to be a lie. 

It’s been too much of a night for a walk and Phil’s been drinking, so he showers in the warmest water his apartment taps will allow, brushes his teeth and falls into bed. He’s asleep by the time his head hits the pillows.

<\--------------------------------<<<<<<

“You keep watching the door like that and he’ll never come.” Wanda scolds fondly, as she comes out carrying a tray of warm coffees and cups of fresh apple crisp. Her white apron set against her scarlet t-shirt with a little white arrow embroidered over the breast. 

“Huh?” Clint looks up from the order form he’s been trying to fill out for the last half hour, feigning innocence, but his bird-like gaze keeps drifting back towards the round oak-wood door. Whenever the big copper bells have rung, Clint had shot a look towards them, but so far no officer Coulson. 

“Don’t play dumb, I saw you making eyes at him last night,” Wanda teases, her lips folding into a smile.

“I wasn’t -,” Clint tries, 

“You were.” Wanda assures, “And so was he.” 

Clint’s cheeks dust themselves with pink as he ducks his head back towards the form. They’re really running low on ginger beer and that cinnamon cream –but the bells over the door sing out and Barton’s feathered head shoots up to see that it wasn’t Phil Coulson coming through. He grumbles and goes back to the order sheet. 

“He’ll come if he’s meant to.” She says, before leaving Clint to his pining at the bar. 

“Your cop’s a no-show?” Kate slips up to the till to ring in a prickly Pukwudgie who peered up over the edge of the counter with big ears and nose –long, thin grey fingers slapping down a few plastic buttons, an arrowhead and one shiny quarter. Its quills rustle and rattle as Kate tosses the buttons into the cash register, offering a penny as change. 

“Hope to see you again.” Kate offers as the Pukwudgie slowly vanishes from sight. 

“He’s not mine, Katie-Kate.” Clint reminds, “And folks have been disappearing ‘round here lately.” The idea of Phil being grabbed off the street has Clint’s feathers ruffling; his grip tightens on the pen he’s holding. The guy doesn’t even realize he’s cursed! 

The tentative blade of peace their Night world had been balanced on was starting to totter and Phil Coulson was just walking into it. A cop he may be, but Clint’s protective streak was telling him to keep his friends close. 

And Phil wasn’t here. 

“Hey -,” Kate’s voice goes soft and assuring as she opens the till and takes the Pukwudgie’s arrowhead; sliding it down the bar to her boss who tucks it into his apron pocket, “your human’s just that –a human, and so far it’s only Night folk that have been taken or attacked.” 

“Real reassuring, Kate,” Clint grumbles signing off on the form he’s finally finished. 

Clint trudges home in the early morning hours –the sun is only thinking about coming up. He and Wanda reset the wards  
and spells shutting up the café. Phil Coulson hadn’t come by and Barton was still fretting as he walked into his apartment.  
The dawn came melting his glamours away as he face plants the bed with a groan. At least he hadn’t ruined another shirt he thinks as his wings stretch and beat once, twice, before lying still against the sheets of his nest. Clint was just starting to dose off as the pain dulled away when his phone rang. 

“Awww, phone, no.” Clint moaned into his pillow, a clawed hand pawing for the nightstand where he dropped the cell leaving thin slices in the wood. He grabs it on its third ring. 

“What?” He’s not in the mood as he presses the phone to his ear –a quiet thought reminds him it might be Coulson. A vain hope. 

“There’s been another attack.” Natasha’s voice is smooth and sharp as a knife. She gets right to the point, “A Hob working at the Princess Bar –they found her out behind the building.”

“Futz.” Clint rubs a hand over his face –the ach of dawn is quickly giving way to worry, “Nat –how?” 

“Burned with iron. A local Sidhe Court cleaned things up before the humans could discover it. It was bad, Clint.” The spider says sternly, though Clint can hear her concern –she knows the Sidhe don’t feel the need to keep a mutt like Clint in the loop. She wouldn’t be calling if she wasn’t worried for him, “Where are you?” 

“Home –I just got in. The spells are in place, the door’s locked.” Clint’s body twinges and complains when he gets up from his nest –his rust-brown wings folding neatly against his back. The dawn wasn’t that long ago. “Where are you?” 

“Safe.” It’s all she offers and for Clint it’s enough. Natasha isn’t the kind of Night Folk to be caught unawares. She’s as deadly as she is beautiful –and far older than him –she’s not made it this long by being stupid. Her spiders see the city, her webs reach farther than Clint could even imagine. 

The Hunters called her the Black Widow –but the world of men tried not to call her at all. 

“Stay safe.” Barton pleads. She’s a good friend –the best –and he’d burn the city down with all the spells he could sing to avenge her. 

“Of course, little bird.” Her voice is soft silk, she loves him too “I still owe you a favour.” 

Clint snorts, “That’s not why, Nat.” But he knows she knows. She really is a good friend –and Clint’s not got a ton of those. He wonders about Wanda, about Kate…and Coulson –where was the cop with a curse in his ribs right now? Would he even think to phone Clint if he was in trouble? 

Probably not.

“Call your people.” The spider advises, “and don’t do anything dumb, little bird.” 

< \--------------------------<<<<<<<<

It’s 9:45am when Phil snaps awake, freezing cold with a shout on his tongue; chased out of dreams by knives and broken teeth and dead eyes –‘come’ the lifeless corpse had whispered against the scarred linoleum tiles of little Eman’s apartment as feathers spilled from her mouth. 

Phil stumbles through getting up and making a fresh pot of coffee; his head rushing with everything that’s been happening, all the things he’s been seeing, all the cases he’s been filing, all the cold locked up in his chest…

It all feels like far too much for one man and Phil feels small in the face of it.

It’s Saturday, he’s got the day to himself and he wishes he didn’t. Phil was really only planning to do groceries and a few small errands before ordering a pizza and getting ready for his late night jaunt through the city, but as he’s tossing a hamper of dirty clothes into the wash, a small stiff business card flutters out of a pocket. 

Phil notices now that the card doesn’t have a name on it, no address either; just a purple arrow on a white card. Phil flips it over and finds a phone number scrolled in purple pen in what must be Clint’s quick handwriting. 

And for a moment his stomach flip-flops. Clint’s given him his phone number –or maybe the phone number for the café. He wonders when the owner had time to write it between giving the card to Phil on his way out the door but there it is.  
And really he shouldn’t bother Clint. The man’s probably asleep after running a restaurant late at night; Phil shouldn’t be pestering Barton with his problems. But…if he didn’t want him to call why give out his number? 

Phil goes through his morning with the thrum of excitement and anxiety of should he-shouldn’t he excitedly buzzing under his skin. He’s only met the man twice but the prospect of hearing Clint’s voice again scares some of the fear of being alone away. Finally, with groceries put away and errands run, Phil’s phone reads twelve noon and he’s staring at the screen deciding to tap in the numbers from the card that has been burning a hole in his pocket all day. 

“’lo?” A groggy sound that can only be Clint’s just-woken-up voice reaches him and Phil could kick himself for disturbing the handsome café owner. 

“Clint –I’m sorry, did I wake you up –I can call back later-?” Phil offers fast. 

He can hear sheets rustling as Clint quickly says “No-! No it’s fine.” His voice is much more awake now that he’s heard Phil’s, “I was uh, actually kinda hoping you’d call.” 

If Phil’s on the phone, he’s not been grabbed or killed or disappeared somewhere. 

“Really?” Phil wonders, his cheeks heating a little at the thought of Clint waiting around for him to phone. 

“Yeah. I mean I gave you my number,” Clint’s voice is a warm smile through the phone –warm like the hot cocoa and cinnamon tea, “You said you’d been having trouble finding the café and I didn’t want you out there wandering around by yourself trying to find us –had a few of our regulars disappear on us lately-,”

“You give your phone number to all your customers?” Phil wonders, sitting on the couch to hear Clint’s voice get playful on the other end as the café owner takes a chance. 

“Only the pretty ones.” Clint’s smirk can be heard through the phone line and Phil’s grinning like a schoolboy with a crush. 

All those tiny butterflies are back in his guts, their little wings whispering ‘ask him out’. 

“What can I do for you today, Officer?” Clint flirts. 

Phil’s thoughts are a jumble of wanting to see Clint again and needing someone to chase his cold away. It sounds too needy to say ‘I needed someone to talk to’ or ‘I saw a dead woman’s face in my sleep and I can’t be alone right now’ or ‘my chest only stops freezing when I’m at your place’. So he improvises. 

“I was wondering - if you’re not working tonight- if you had some free time for a drink.” Phil feels like he’s somehow just jumped off a cliff into free air. 

“I would love to,” Clint says, “But I am working tonight,” Phil’s heart falls only to rise again swiftly when the young man offers, “Why don’t we meet up for six? That’ll give me time before I need to have the café open.” 

Phil tries to be graceful, “Did you have a place in mind?” 

“There’s a place near me –best pizza in town,” Soon Barton’s rattling off directions and telling Phil he’ll see him in a few hours, and it dawns on him. 

Phil Coulson has a date.


	3. Human Attachments

“You getting attached to a human is risky.” Natasha says, eyeing him from her web when he stops by for a visit. Her place is much nicer than Clint’s, tucked into an upscale, quiet part of town which was much less populated and backed out onto the woods. The Black Widow made her living on information and that afforded her more comfort than Barton enjoyed. 

Natasha is both beautiful and terrifying; with hair like hot embers against pale skin. Her human torso tapers down to a body of pure black. A spider’s sternum with eight elegant legs leads to an abdomen with a red hourglass a bright warning of her venom. 

The Widow had drawn in many a man, tore his every last secret from him; made him sing, made him scream before devouring his innards. Some places still remembered the stories –still warned their young men about the Widow. Today her face is mostly human but Clint has seen it split with large mandibles and wicked claws. 

She has a healthy distrust of humans, but a soft spot for the bird standing in her home. 

“Pretty sure his curse isn’t the transferable kind, Nat. Just some shivers in his left arm and he gets really cold sometimes –could be worse.” Barton shrugged his feathered shoulders –his brown rusty wings tucked against his back so they wouldn’t get caught up in her elegant webs. Natasha knew what he was and only secrets that could not be shared lay between them –he wouldn’t insult her by hiding his wings away. 

“You know that’s not what I mean, little bird.” The Black Widow gives him a disapproving look out of her eight eyes as she makes her way further down to the edge of her webs to stand before him. The scars on her pale arms a cold reminder of what humanity did to monsters like them. 

“Besides –I’m not getting attached.” Clint insists, “He’s nice.”

“You gave him your number.” Natasha reminds, “And you have a terrible tendency of rushing into things.” 

Clint really does. And he really doesn’t want to do that –to rush…whatever this is –with Phil Coulson. Especially since the man barely knows what he’s gotten into –barely understands what Clint is. Nat doesn’t need to be worried about Clint getting attached; he’s sure that if the officer ever sees Clint’s wings, his face like this, he’ll turn tail and run. 

Clint’s a monster; he knows that. And Coulson is a human (cursed though he may be).

“If he hurts you, I’ll know,” She assures, pressing a pale palm to his cheek, her body leaning in the open space between him and her silken webs, “I still owe you one favour –say the word and he will never bother you again.” 

Clint cups her hand gently, mindful of his blackened bird-like claws. She does owe him. Clint remembers her ‘thank you’ and knew what it had meant. Natasha’s old, and cunning and far too smart not to know what thanking a Sidhe–even a half one like Clint –would mean. 

But he’d promised himself he wouldn’t waste her favour on something frivolous. 

“It’s getting bad out there, Clint. A few Sidhe Courts are closing their knowes, the wolves are tightening their ranks,” Natasha warns, “I’ve watched empires rise and fall, little bird; I know the signs when I see them.” 

“I’ll be careful, Nat.” He says and she nods, retreating silently back to her webs. 

Clint crouches and starts to change in the empty hallway of Nat’s place. She’s left the window open for him. He lets his bones shift and crunch; feels his organs shuffle and his skin break as feathers melt out along the rest of his body. It hurts but Clint’s used to it and he wants to fly. The sun will set in another four hours and he desperately doesn’t want to take the crowded subway or walk to get to the nice little restaurant he’s invited Phil to. 

Not today. 

Being with Nat reminds him of what he really is –makes him yearn for the sky over his head and the freedom his wings afford. Shoving a glamour on, using up his magic and blending in with the strangers he passes has lost its appeal for today. And he needs to chew on what the Widow has told him. With the Night folks on edge, business at the cafe might get a little hairy –literally and metaphorically. Might mean he’s down a staff member if Kate’s Court locks down. 

Spreading his wings Clint launches himself from the window Natasha had left open for him; a few quick beats and he’s off, rising higher and higher on the warm thermals cast by the city. In his feathers, Barton looks just like a regular hawk with brown wings leading to rusty red primary feathers. 

No matter his troubles, the skies have always been his. 

Phil waits outside the small Italian eatery under the green and red canvas awning looking at his phone when Clint shows up. The café owner had quickly changed in a well-shadowed alleyway a few blocks over, praying Hunters didn’t find him naked and twisting on the ground beside a dumpster. It’s not one of his favorite places to shed his feathers and getting slapped with an exposure charge would just add insult to injury. Fortunately, no Hunters today. A quick bit of magic for clothes and a glamour and Clint was ready to be seen in public. 

And the human waiting for him under that awning in the swiftly coming evening does something to his heart –watching him waiting there for Clint to show up. 

Clint the human –he reminds –not Clint the monster.

“Coulson!” Barton calls, waving and smiling from ear to ear. The officer is dressed casually and Clint can’t get over the look of Officer Phil Coulson in a neat pair of well-tailored jeans and a t-shirt –a pair of black framed glasses perch on his face; his comfortable, but competent look hitting each of Clint’s buttons.

Nat could say what she wanted about humans, but damn Phil Coulson was special. Clint could tell. 

“Clint,” Phil’s smiling face gives nothing away even though he’s got his own personal flock of butterflies in his guts. 

“Were you here long? I didn’t mean to make you wait-,” Barton’s sharp eyes catch the flush in Phil’s cheeks and wow that’s a pretty sight. 

“No –you’re right on time –I was early,” Phil confesses, “You’re sure this is okay with you working tonight?” 

“Yeah,” Clint assures, “Way better than just grabbing something on the way to the café.” The company was much better too,   
“You must be starving –this place makes the best pizza in town.” 

Clint’s warm calloused fingers brush against Phil’s cold elbow, leading him towards the doorway and into a booth near the back. The restaurant smells wonderful and Phil accepts a menu and a beer from the waitress who passes a glass of Coke to Clint. 

“How long have you been working at the café?” Phil asks when their pizza arrives, easily lifting a slice onto Clint’s waiting plate. 

“A while now –felt like settling down after years of freelance work and the Circus.” Clint shrugs over a bite of hot pizza,   
“Thought it would be nice to have something of my own.” 

“And you really worked for the Circus?” Phil has to ask because he was sure that couldn’t be something on Barton’s resume. 

“Yeah –I uh…I started up when I was little.” Clint decides to leave the details out, “Got real good with a bow; even earned my own act.” He can’t help the little swell of pride at that, “Hawkeye; the Amazing Marksman!” 

Phil remembers the bow hanging neatly over the bar. He’s never seen Clint use it and had thought it was just some strange choice of decoration. But in his mind’s eye, he can see those well-defined arms pulled tight; taking aim and it’s a nice image. Maybe sometime Clint will agree to show him, he wonders as he takes his next slice of pizza. 

“That’s amazing.” Phil says which makes Clint beam like a cat in the warm sun, “But it must be nice to run your own business.” 

“Must be cool to be a cop,” Clint tosses back, “Did you always want to be an officer?” 

Phil shrugged wistfully, “Joined the force with a good friend as soon as we could –now he’s my boss –and it was hard but worth it.” Despite his injury, his near death, Phil really wouldn’t trade his job for anything. A sharp stab of freezing cold pain licks from his ribs, wracking down his side and sending his left arm quaking. The pain got away from Phil before he could hide it on his face. 

“Coulson?” Clint’s warm, warn fingers reach across the table to touch Phil’s, hesitantly waiting for the officer to let him tangle their fingers together. The young man’s thumb rubs soothingly against the officer’s skin as the cold blooms there in his chest. 

“What is this, Barton?” Phil shivers quietly and Clint’s unsure which he means –the curse in his side or the hopeful twinning of fingers here in a pizza place. 

“Not sure.” It’s a half-truth; Clint really isn’t sure what the curse is in his side or what the fluttery feeling is in his chest but time’s running out –Barton needs to start work soon and he’s loathed to send Phil back to his place, alone and in pain. He’s still shivering. 

“Why don’t I walk you home –unless you want to hang out at the café?” But Phil knows once the hurt recedes he’ll be left warn and wanting a hot shower and a bed rather than a barstool. 

“Home, I think, but you don’t have to -,” Phil starts. He feels old and hurt and horrible for ruining their meal. 

“I don’t have to but I will.” Clint assures tossing some bills down and shooing Phil’s away when the officer tries to add a few of his own. 

“But you’ll be late for work.” 

“One of the perks of owning my own place is opening whenever I feel like it.” Clint grins leading Phil out of the restaurant and out onto the street, “Folks can wait half an hour for their lattes.” 

But Phil still looks downcast, cold and miserable, “Hey,” Barton moves to stand in front of him on the sidewalk, “did you have fun tonight?” 

“Before my chest started acting up? Yeah –yeah I really did.” Phil’s cheeks pink and that is a good look on him, really. 

“Good, cause I did too.” He says, “And now I’m gonna walk you home.” 

“Clint, I-,” His voice starts to fade out, the colour leaching from his eyes and face. 

“Coulson?” Clint asks but already he can taste the magic in the air. It’s like sawdust and formaldehyde on his tongue and Barton tries to pull the officer closer to him as the spell wraps itself around the city block. But it’s far too late. 

The world falls grey around him like a veil. The people about Clint –Phil Coulson included –move like they’re stuck in thick, cold, molasses. Clint’s blood runs frigid; his fingers tightening on Phil’s though he knows the officer can’t feel them. The spell has cut them off –cut Clint off from everything. Still, Barton places himself protectively in front of Phil whose side is shining with a cold lance of light where he was stabbed –the only colour here in the gloom. 

The curse. 

Two men step out of the gloom in crisp suits, badges out and gleaming in the dark. Clint can see the silver knives sheathed at their hips, each one carrying a gun loaded with enough silver and iron rounds to put down any Night thing. 

“Hunters of the Fifth Division –licence and registration, please.” A slender man says with thin-rimmed glasses perched on a bird-like nose. His fingers covered in rings and a large amulet hangs around his neck stinking of protective magics. A wand is tucked inside his jacket but he’s no Witch. The Hunters are practiced in many magical forms of defense –and they hold much less regard for life than the Covens do. 

“I’m just walking to work, guys.” Clint says but slowly reaches for his wallet, “Not breaking any treaties.” 

The taller one sneers around a mouthful of white teeth. He’s built like a truck and has two rings of his own but far less jewelry than his partner. Clint can’t decide if it’s arrogance or not, “Taking humans without a licence is poaching, Night thing, and poaching is a violation of the treaty –so is cursing them.” 

“Not poaching if I’m not going to eat him –he’s a friend -and he was cursed when I found him.” Clint assures, passing over his driver’s license to the slim Hunter –his heavy rings brushing over Barton’s skin singing his digits into a red hot burn. 

Iron. 

Clint holds back the hiss of pain as the men inspect his card. A simple driver’s license; but in their hands its face flickers to reveal Clint’s information. 

“A Sidhe-Shifter.” The slender one says like he’s found an odd specimen, “No record of man-eating –and restricted access to the Summerlands. You couldn’t spirit anyone away if you wanted to.” It was meant as a jab and Clint wasn’t fond of the reminder of his banishment, “Still, a spell above the fifth level is an infraction.” 

“And I’m telling you I didn’t curse him.” Clint tries to argue. His feathers are starting to ruffle –there have been enough deaths and disappearances recently and he’d rather not be one of them. Would the Hunters really take him right off the street like this? Right in front of Phil –though he couldn’t see it? 

When the grey lifted would Phil be alone and wondering? 

That would be an infraction all its own –the treaty swung both ways. Night things couldn’t hunt without a license, and 

Hunters couldn’t apprehend without a cause. 

But the leaner of the two Hunters has snatched up Clint’s hand in his –the iron rings biting into his skin causing the Hawk to bite back a cry as each ring licked fresh pain hot and screaming across his fingers –his glamour shivering revealing his golden eyes and fierce features. The Hunter mutters a phrase under his breath, words Clint can’t even hear over his pulse hammering in his ears. 

“Seems like the only spells you’ve cast lately are level three and under.” He sounds disappointed, a frown creasing his lean face.

“Told you,” Clint gasps out, trying to sound unfazed but failing. His hand is screaming at him, throbbing with bright hot hurt. The thin Hunter gives his fingers an extra squeeze before letting Barton go to inspect the damage. 

“See that it stays that way.” His smile is a sliver against his face, “Stay out of trouble, Mr. Barton.” 

And the grey world melts away, the Hunters with it leaving the night colourful and warm. Clint steps back to Phil’s side, their fingers still tangled together, like nothing had happened. 

But it had. 

And Clint tires to curl his burnt fingers away so Phil won’t see. Ignorance is bliss.

“-wanted to say,” Phil starts and Barton can feel the pull of the words to come –the words he can’t let Phil say.

“Don’t thank me. Ever.” Clint’s voice is a little tight and he tries to put on a big smile to make it sound softer, more playful than it comes out. He instantly feels like a heel for the look that passes so briefly over the officer’s face before being tucked away like it had never been. It’s not Phil’s fault. None of this is. 

He should just tell Phil everything –tell him about the café and why he can’t seem to find it without help, about Clint and the curse freezing in his own chest. He should fucking man up instead of keeping this guy in the dark. 

But where does he start and how does he say it? 

‘I don’t know what happened to you, but it left a mark’ 

Clint’s not always the greatest with words. And sometimes ignorance is bliss. 

< \--------------------------------<<<<<

Phil’s place isn’t as big as Clint thought it might be but it’s nice and well cared for –though there are definite signs of life, like a few dishes stacked to dry and a comfortable throw blanket tossed over the edge of the couch.   
Clint’s grateful he’s not a Vampire who needs to wait to be let in because he was in Officer Coulson’s house –actually walked him home like on a real date –and wasn’t this what Nat had warned him about? Taking things slow? Not getting involved with a human? 

Phil’s not shivering anymore, the flare-up must have passed, but he looks tired. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Phil tries to be a good host as Clint gets his bearings –he really just needed to make sure Phil was okay and got inside alright –“What the hell happened to your hand?” Phil’s voice is suddenly all concern and he’s snatched up Clint’s wrist in a careful grasp to inspect the fresh, raw burns.

Shit. 

“It’s nothing -,” He tries to wave off. 

“‘Nothing’?” Phil echoes with disbelief as he tugs Clint along to the small kitchen to run his red-raw fingers under cold water, “these look awful, Barton! When did this happen?” 

“Uh,” Clint scrambles to find an answer that won’t sound like a total lie, “this morning –I uh, I was cleaning the stovetops when we were closing. It was still pretty hot.” 

“And you didn’t cover it? Didn’t put anything on it? Clint-,” Phil’s torn between disbelief that something this red, this swollen and weeping could have been just left open and raw –and why hadn’t he seen it when they were at the restaurant? 

“I had it covered –I just wanted it to dry out a bit,” Clint keeps digging himself into this lie and further away from a point where he could tell Phil the truth –about anything. And he kind of hates it. 

Really hates it. 

But the handsome man is staring at Clint’s injured fingers like they are a personal offence, before moving to get a first aid kit and steering Barton towards a chair. Phil’s carefully drying his hurting fingers, and is dabbing a bit of antiseptic ointment onto the worse parts, gently rubbing it into Clint’s skin. 

And no one but Nat has ever treated Clint with such care. 

Officer Coulson’s face is creased but caring as he bends all his attention to the task of taking care of the café owner. The apartment is quiet between them and the last brilliant light from the setting sun warms the kitchen and Phil’s face. 

Clint’s heart stutters as he watches this cursed human forget his own aches as he wraps Clint’s hand in white sterile gauze and puts on a thick bandage. 

And the kiss Clint leans up to place softly on Phil’s creased and concentrating brow feels less like rushing and more like a forgone conclusion. Like Clint’s lips belonged on Phil –like they had all along. 

Phil makes a surprised little sound in his throat but doesn’t pull away until the café owner leans back –his cheeks dusted with pink. 

“I –uh…” He’s tongue-tied and this time not from any spell Clint has cast, the rose that creeps from his ears to his cheeks is a colour Clint wants to capture. But the night is creeping in, the sun has set and it’s time to go.

“I gotta get going to work –Kate’s gonna worry,” Barton says quietly like he’s afraid to frighten the moment between them away, “I’ll see you at the café? Maybe tomorrow?” 

“Yeah –yes, absolutely.” Phil wishes that had sounded smoother, but…Clint had kissed him and his brain was still playing catch up. 

“Great! Awesome –that’s good –call me on your way over?” Barton asks. He doesn’t want him getting lost again. 

“I will.” Phil sees him to the door, hesitating before leaning in to gently take Clint’s bandaged hand –those warn fingers wrapped in gauze –and placing a soft kiss where his knuckles are. It’s not a thank you, but it’s the best thing Clint’s ever gotten. 

Barton’s floating as he trots down the street, a warmth in his chest he hasn’t known for a while. Like things could really be going well for once, despite the string of disappearances and the random stop and search. The aching throb in his hand doesn’t matter because Phil Coulson had kissed those knuckles. 

“You’re late.” Kate accuses as he swings in the door to the café –the bells clinking as he comes through. She’s ringing up a nice Skinwalker at the till. 

“Had a thing.” Clint heads to the back to put on his apron, “Wasn’t sure we’d see you tonight, Katie-Kate –Nat said security’s getting tight.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easy.” She calls after him.

“Your hand-?” Wanda notices as he ducks through the kitchens. 

“Hunters crashed my date.” Clint replies, “Iron burn –should heal up in a few days.” 

“I could have a look at it. I know I’m not with a Coven yet, but I’ve been practicing-,” She offers, fingers glowing that fiery red and Clint winces. Wanda’s magic is frighteningly strong but still young. He’d rather wait this one out. 

“I love you for offering but I’m gonna take a pass –I like my fingers where they are.” He grins. They’d find Wanda a real Coven that would take her in and get her taught properly eventually.

Clint’s tying up his apron strings when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Hey, Nat.” He greets, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, “Just got to work-,”

“I sent my spiders to look into that human and his curse.” She gets to the point, “You said he was cold –chest and hands?”

“Yeah,” Clint’s brow folds into concern, “Yeah, and his left arm tremors sometimes –Nat, what’s this about?” 

“Clint, the curse is spreading –it’s a slow acting one, but it will grow, spread –until he dies.”

“What?” His mouth suddenly feels dry, his hands drop the apron strings to grip his phone, “How?” 

“The cold will spread through his body; he’ll be trying to compensate –eating more to make up for the calories his body’s burning trying to stay warm – but it will keep spreading until he can’t anymore. A slow hypothermia -,” Her voice sounds far away. 

“Clint?” Wanda asks, looking up from the order tickets to see his face falling. 

“How long?” Clint asks. 

“I’m not sure. This is very powerful magic, little bird. A human shouldn’t have initially survived it.” But Phil Coulson had. Clint can’t do words right now, his fingers still remembering the warmth from Phil’s lips. 

“I needed to tell you, Clint.” She says, “I’m sorry.” And she sounds it. She really does.


	4. Wendigo

“Where are you going?” Kate asks as Clint tosses his apron back behind the counter, making his way to the door. 

“Out.” Is all he says. 

“Out-? Clint we just opened-!” She calls after him but the Shifter is gone into the night. The moon is rising nearly full in the sky as he moves from skin to feathers in the darkened cobbled streets. Flying will get him wherever he’s going faster.   
The night air seems colder on his feathers as he wheels and soars over the city lights that turn the landscape to bright gold beneath him. Somewhere down there Phil Coulson is in his apartment where Clint left him after their date. He can still feel the soft brush of human lips against his knuckles –those concerned eyes as he tended to the burn on Clint’s hand. 

Phil’s dying. 

Phil Coulson’s curse, the one tight between his ribs, is killing him –Phil’s dying –and if Clint were a pure blooded Sidhe maybe he would have known the words to fix it –maybe if he wasn’t a dirty mutt he’d have the songs to fix this. 

He thinks of going to Kate’s knowe –to the edge of the Summerlands and begging for assistance. After all what curse could be older than the Sidhe? But asking the Fair Folk for help was more than a little risky; they’d find the loopholes in your words, give you exactly what you asked for, even if it’s not what you meant, and leave you owing them for the favour. Ask for a baby and you’d get one that would never grow a day, bargain for a horse and they’d turn you into one and laugh as you brayed and whinnied all the way home.

And there was no way they’d spin a spell for a human, especially if it was Clint the half breed asking. 

So his next choice was the witches and their Covens. There was one –one Barton had been trying to get Wanda connected with –at the edges of Central Park. The Witches were a much safer bet; of all the Night folk they were still human and held life as a sacred thing. They’d save a life if they could and Clint probably wouldn’t owe them some impossible favour for it.

A little brownstone with a tall set of steps up to a nice oak door has shrugged its way cheek by jowl in between tall neighbouring buildings across from a park. The Covens loved their green spaces as much as the rest of the Night folk. They’d even been so nice as to keep the stone handrail instead of putting in wrought iron. Clint’s hand is still throbbing, though he can already feel the tell-tail itch of skin starting to knit itself back together. 

“You’re a persistent guy.” A young man says when Clint rings the doorbell for the fifth time, leaning on the buzzer. Billy Kaplan might look about the same age as Kate with his neat dark brown hair and soft face but he’s human –part of this Coven –and that makes him just a kid in Clint’s old Sidhe eyes. 

“It’s important.” He’s not really in the mood to deal with Billy’s attitude. The young man sighs, stepping aside to let the Hawk in. Kid he may be but the boy’s a Witch and a powerful one at that. Magda’s Coven is one of the strongest in the area bosting some real talent. Barton had wanted Wanda here, to learn and make a family with these Witches but so far no luck. 

The front hall is narrow with deep dark polished wood floors but the walls papered warm and red leading into a much larger house than the outside gave the building credit for. There’s a rack for shoes and a few potted plants by the entryway leading towards a warm sitting room and a bright hearth. The brownstone feels like a real home; happy voices filtering in from the kitchen and from up the steep staircase –it makes Clint fell even more like an outsider. 

“Bring our guest in, Billy, he’s in a hurry.” The matriarch’s warm voice rings out kindly. Clint’s met with Magda before; the head of this Coven, and had been turned down before, but he’s not here for Wanda –not this time. 

“We told you, her power’s too destructive,” Billy reminds as he leads Clint down the hallway, “The Covens value life-,” 

“He’s not here for the woman.” Magda stands as Clint and Billy walk past the sliding glass doors into the sitting room. Her long, curly black hair tumbles down her back over the wine red shawl cast bright and alight in the glow from the fireplace rich and warm. “Or for the iron burn on his hand, though it must be very painful.” 

She looks like a mother; a woman whose hands are rough from working outside and eyes that can spot a child’s mischief at a hundred paces. 

“I need help with a curse.” Barton doesn’t waste any time, he doesn’t bother with a glamour either; if he’s coming for a favour, he’s coming as himself –for Phil.

“We don’t make curses, Mr. Barton, as you well know.” Magda offers him a seat by the fire but Clint decides to stand; feathers ruffled, features sharp and fair, “The Covens draw their magic from all living things the Mother makes; the very fabric of life itself. Using that sacred fabric to injure or kill would be -,” 

“I don’t need a curse made, I need it broken.” Clint insists. He knows how Coven magic works, thanks. There had been a sweet old Witch at Carson’s Travelling Circus –one who had fed him candy apples and bits of spun sugar. She’d also told him about the few factions of Witches who had no qualms about curses but that the Covens had come together to try and stop this practice. 

The Covens would like to sell the line that they had won that argument but nothing is ever quite that simple. 

Magda’s expression softens, “Billy, get us some tea please, I think this will take Mr. Barton some explaining.” Clint wants to say forget the tea but Billy’s already gone and Magda’s taken her seat on the large plush couch near the stone fireplace, waiting patiently. So he starts at the beginning; about Phil and his chest and the cold and the shakes and everything that Nat had told him. 

The tea was ready and served by the time he’s finished and Magda’s inspecting her fine china cup as Clint takes his first few sips. It’s warm and smells like peppermint and something he can’t name but already he can feel the pain in his fingers start to lessen.

Typical Witches. 

“I think this is the first time a Good Neighbour has come to ask a favour for a human.” She smiles softly to herself, “You must see the irony in it, Mr. Barton.” 

“Can you help Phil?” He presses. 

“I’m not sure,” She admits placing her cup down softly on the side table. At least Magda is honest, “Without Phillip here I can’t fully understand the size of what kind of curse we’re dealing with. I’ll need to meet with him or have some sort of personal belonging of his.” 

“I can do that.” Clint isn’t sure how, but he will. For Phil he will. 

<\--------------------<<<<<<

Phil’s been working hard all day flying through his caseload. His date last night had gone…actually not that badly. He still feels horrible about his chills sending them off in their own separate directions faster than Phil had wanted. But Clint had kissed him; Phil can still feel the brush of warmth on his lips if he thinks about it (and he does). Clint Barton had kissed him and told him he’d see him tomorrow –tonight –and that didn’t sound like the end of a bad date. Not at all. 

But he’s found himself stalled on his third cold case. 

A young woman –Tabitha –she’d gone missing on her way to work, her body found dumped naked and bloody in a ditch. Phil’s stomach rolls at the crime scene photos; Tabitha’s pale, headless, body greyish with a hole in her abdomen like something had liquefied her guts and chewed its way out. She’d been ID’d by the tattoo on her right wrist.  
Track marks skitter up and down her arms, but her sister swore she wasn’t a junkie, not a day of her life and couldn’t recognize the recent hot brand on her hip. But Ketamine was in her blood and a burning gut full of silver nitrate solution –like some kind of weird science experiment. 

Once again no leads showed up, no witnesses, nothing. Tabitha was just gone. Her sister still came around the precinct every year to ask if anything had turned up and Fury always took time to sit with her. 

Phil sighs and shuts the folder. This had really put a damper on the day and he longed for the time when he’d be out with Jasper or May instead of stuck at his desk –his arm twinges a little at the thought and cold grips his chest.   
It’s a full moon tonight as Phil makes his way early to the streets in search of the café Clint runs. Barton was expecting him and it was nice to have somewhere to be after a day of work staring at a cold case he could do nothing about –not that he hadn’t thought about going out behind Fury’s back to work cases again, but he couldn’t do that to Nick. Not without a partner, anyway. And no way would Jasper or May would agree. 

Phil thumbs Clint’s name in his phone and waits for it to ring. 

“Hey.” Barton’s voice sounds much more awake now than the first time Phil had phoned. 

“Hi Clint, it’s Phil,” Phil can feel his cheeks heat at the memory of the last time he saw the café owner; his lips pressed to worn knuckles, “I’m on my way over.” 

“That’s great! You’re by the precinct?” He can hear the bustling sounds of the kitchen, of plates and hot pans and the little chime of a bell when an order was up. “We’re actually not too far from you; I’ll be there in a minute.” 

He wants to protest, “I’ve been over these streets before –the café’s nowhere near the precinct-,” Phil insists. 

“It is tonight.” Clint’s voice sounds playful and Phil hears the bells over the doorway clang softly as the owner steps out onto the cobbled street. 

“One of these nights you’re going to have to tell me how your place keeps changing.” Coulson’s voice holds a hint of suspicion under the light tone there. Clint can tell he’s catching on; most people shrug the odd off as long as they can; gotta be a logical explanation for it, right? But it can’t last long in the face of a café that moves every night. 

Or a freezing cold curse in between your ribs. 

“I will.” Clint says feeling the tug of his words –his promise –binding him faintly to it. One way or another he will tell Phil. He has to. 

The cold nips into the air that night, moon full-bellied overhead. The Hunters of the Third division patrol the south end of town, their coat collars tucked up against the night. Jacks and Harvey aren’t tall either one, but they’re seasoned; their wands and stakes tucked into their belts, iron and silver trinkets around their necks and fingers.   
Harvey, blond hair pulled back into a neat bun, keeps a penny tucked into her breast pocket. “For luck,” She says. 

“If you believe in that stuff.” Jacks scoffs, black hair buzzed short, rubbing his thick hands together to chafe some warmth into them. His little girl sure does and he’ll let her for now, but he’s a practical man. 

“Night things do,” Harvey shrugs with a smile. And that’s who their patrolling so it’s gotta be worth something. 

“I tell you what –s’fuckin’ luck we’ve been out here for hours without any trouble. Moon’s full and not one Nigh Folk to be found.” Jacks nods up to the sky. There’s not too many people out either. Nice and quiet on these little side streets, but Harvey blows out a breath. It’s been getting colder as the night goes on. Maybe they’ll grab a coffee to chase the chill off. 

Most of the Night Folk they pick up are just minor stuff; some young vampires looking to poach a drink or two without a permit, contraband herbs, a few critters out without a glamour –that sort of thing. Maybe with that lucky penny it’ll stay that way. 

Further down the way a clatter and the sound of high squeals peel into the cold air. 

“See now you jinxed us.” Harvey scows as she calls up the grey casting it over the long city block –their pace quickening.

“Third Division! Show yourself!” Jacks hollers into the night, his breath hanging in the air. 

The Werewolf in the shadows is changing, fur bursting forth from skin and twisting features. The creature looks half-formed –face stretched and back bent and feet twisting at the toes –the bright, tight rings of a spell burned fiercely into skin on his ribs and torso leave little question to how he came to this alley or to this state. It’s less wolf and more monstrosity. Snapping and dragging his horrifying limbs down the street towards the Hunters, the once-man’s eyes glow red in the darkness. 

“I fuckin’ hate the cursed ones.” Jacks grumbles, pulling his gun from its holster. The creature pulls itself towards them on twisting arms, claws scratching cement, jaws snapping at the cold air; it’s lower belly scraping the ground as it’s body twists in the Change. 

“You’re sure?” Harvey wonders. She doesn’t want an infraction on their record or the retribution that would come their way from a sloppy mistake. The Treaties swing both ways and she’s heard stories of how the Wolves make an offender wait and set them loose on Pack land on a full moon night. 

“Look at ‘im, Sara –poor bastard’s already tryin’ to hunt and he ain’t even finished the Change.” He sounds right sorry for it, for the man this monster used to be. Harvey marches herself across the Treaty; hunting on Pack land is legal; you need a permit to change in populated areas barring very thin extenuating circumstances and no turning people for any reason –either by curse or by other magical means. The sale of wolf pelts is restricted. 

Violators will be apprehended where possible or shot. 

And typically the law swung towards the Hunters when a wolf is found in violation –especially the cursed ones. Too often they wind up like this; snarling, snapping, half formed creatures so hungry and out of their mind with the hunt…

Jack’s gun’s level and the pop is a harsh sound in the quiet grey world they’ve cast.

The Werewolf falls, face and brains exploded across the alleyway mixed with swirls of silver, body shriveling back to human with those bright angry scars against cooling skin. The night is heavy in its wake and neither Hunter moves for a good minute or two. 

“I’ll call it in.” Sara Harvey finally sighs, turning away from the body in the quiet that hangs after the shot. She doesn’t get far –long icy claws pierce her coat and chest sending hot blood up into her throat.

“SARA-!” Jacks leaps back to get some space between the hunched white shaggy-furred figure as he fumbles for his gun.

“Cold men in cold nights –their blood tastes the best,” The words sound like snow falling from a face stretched over a deer’s skull, Sara scrambling, twitching, reaching for the wand clasped at her belt, “Make me warm.” 

Harvey coughs and tries to reach for her own weapon but the creature hoists her body up before sinking its icicle-like teeth into her belly and biting down. 

Jacks screams in horror; unloading his clip into the creature’s side. It howls into the grey night now flecked with snow before dropping its meal to the street and fleeing into the dissipating gloom. 

< \----------------------------<<<<<<<

The café is warm and packed with patrons tonight; the large wooden tables stretch before the roaring fireplace full up with a loud party of twelve. Each window booth is full and the chatter of voices rises to the rafters. Phil orders a drink of his own up at the bar. Clint’s sweeping gracefully over the smooth wood floors with platers of food and drinks, winking at Phil as he passes. When he’s not serving customers, Clint’s behind the bar flirting with Phil. 

“You come here often?” Barton sways his hips as he mixes drinks and slides them down the bar towards Kate who rolls her eyes hard enough to strain something. 

“Only recently. There’s this guy who works at the bar who’s pretty cute.” Phil looks up over the rim of his cup –all pulled together in his dress shirt and tie and it’s pushing all of Clint’s buttons. 

“That so?” Clint’s voice is smoke as he picks up a tray to go clear off some tables before ducking back into the kitchens. 

It’s late but Phil’s glad he came tonight; he’s glad he’s not at home shivering in his bed alone. The warm drink, the bright café, Clint Barton’s smiling face and good company are doing wonders for the cold in his ribs. He swears he sees glimpses of things around the café but brushes off fur and feathers for tricks of the light. These things were strictly impossible and besides, it was late. 

The bell over the door jangles and a gush of cold air sweeps down along the floorboards and up past Phil’s feet. He shivers, the shudder starting in his chest and radiating out into his arms. 

“You look unwell, friend,” A sudden voice from nearby at the bar whispers and Phil finds the temperature around him is dropping fast. A hand colder than his brushes his shoulder like a lick of frost. The man seemed to have materialized at the bar out of the cold. The faint pap pap pap of something wet dripping down to the floor. 

And Phil sees him. Really sees him. The newcomer isn’t a man at all but a monster –a horror. Lanky-thin with shaggy white hair running down long, arms that ended in skeletal hands and claws. Its face looked like it once could have been a man’s but now the skin was stretched over a deer skull, antlers and all blackened with frost. The wetness dripping is cold blood, blackened and thick from skeletal ribs that jut out from starved sides. 

“Unwell and lost,” The stranger’s eyes are blood, his feet scrape frost against the polished wood floors, “and very cold.”   
Phil is off his barstool fast sending it clattering to the floor –the other patrons are starting to glance over at the noise –but the creature is swift, sending Phil ducking under a blow aimed for his chest. The rowdy bar is alight with almost human figures watching from their booths –foxy faces, glowing eyes with prickled spines, hulking wart-covered forms and coyote laughter. 

Phil ducks another blow, drawing his sidearm and firing off two shots that lodge in the creature’s fur, it’s bellow a scream of ice and cold. 

“Clint-!” Kate is calling; worry edging through her voice as she leaps the bar –a wood carved bow materializing in her hand to the smell of pine and clean washing, “Wendigo!” 

“Lost and cold men have the best blood,” Phil blocks the first few swipes aimed to open his chest –dropping his gun in the struggle, his feet moving him back and away, patrons scurrying from their seats as the fight moves down the bar. Chairs upturned and pints shatter as the beast sweeps across a table to snatch at Phil bellowing in a shriek like a snowstorm, “I hunger!” 

The blow is fast and Phil’s on his back with a yawning maw coming at him. His jacket torn open, his badge tumbling to the frost-bit floor. He’s so, so cold –the claws on him digging ice into his arms through the material of his jacket. Can’t move, can’t breathe, so cold -, 

“Then starve!” And something thunks hard and fast into the beast’s eye socket jerking him to the side and his jaws away from Phil. Thick black blood drips in clots down the white fur spattering Phil’s cheek. The arrow is buried in the Wendigo’s deep fur, its head slowly turning to see Clint standing on the polished bar –the bow that hung on the wall in his hands. 

And oh Phil was right. 

He’s exquisite. Hair full of feathers, features fierce and eyes a golden angry glow. 

The beast roars loud enough to rattle the windows, a blast of frozen air ripping through the café like a blizzard –and Clint shoots. Three arrows right between the creature’s eyes. Kate’s at Phil’s side, pulling him up and away as the Wendigo sways before shuddering into snow. 

The café is still, the remaining patrons stare, stand stalk-still. A few murmur heat spells to ward away the chill, a few some prayers. Each one monsters where men used to be. How had Phil not seen them before? 

“Order off the menu or get the fuck out.” Clint’s voice is clipped as he hops off the bar –wings –fuck he has wings! They’re tucked behind him but they’re there! Phil turns to Kate who looks much less human herself –a pure blood Daoine Sidhe. 

“I’ll get a mop.” She grumbles, taking the bow from Clint’s hand before disappearing into the back. She not completely unfazed but not as shaken as Phil felt. 

“Phil, are you okay? Phil?” Clint’s in front of him, clawed hands gently rising as though to feel for any injury –any hurt at all. 

Up close Phil can see how beautiful and terrifying Clint himself is –a hunter, an old thing, something entirely not human. 

“Wendigo-?” He breaths the word he’d heard from Kate, the word still hangs in the air once he’s said it.  
Clint looks wounded –like he’s berating himself for something, eyes looking away before quickly throwing on a glamour to hide his eyes and wings. Phil misses them instantly but the moment is stolen as a patron –a giant whose brow brushes the ceiling–walks past them clapping Clint on the shoulder making him flinch.

“Good shot.” His voice rumbles with a laugh as he passes. 

“Yeah –yeah, a Wendigo got in-,” And this is way too much. He’s too cold -the stranger –a Wendigo -had froze him stiff.   
Like he’d jumped into an icy river and breathed all the water in. He needs to go home, he needs to think, he needs to get warm…

Phil tugs away staggering to the steps and out the door into the cooling autumn night. He hears Clint further away calling his name and jolts a little when a warm, clawed hand touches his arm. 

“Phil, you’re freezing, Come on, come here.” The café owner’s tugging him towards the stone steps of the shop, his clawed hand pressing into his chest with a voice quietly humming a heat spell. It kicks up the smell of clear skies and fresh clean straw in the cobbled alleyway. Heat blooms like a sunflower in Phil’s ribs; bright and full. 

“What’s a Wendigo, Clint?” Phil’s voice is getting stronger, his mind defrosting.

Clint stiffens for a second, his hands stilling on Phil’s heart. He wishes he could pretend not to have heard, that he could put this off one more day. But putting it off had gotten Phil hurt; maybe if he’d known then tonight wouldn’t have happened. The Wendigo’s blood still speckles the officer’s cheek and Clint hates himself for every drop.

Phil can feel the fight go out of Clint, his voice filled with regret as his hand drops away. Phil misses that hand, “I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry, Phil.” 

Coulson’s patient and waits as the café owner finds his words and spills his guts. 

“A Wendigo is… it’s somebody who got lost in the woods. Someone stuck out in the cold; hungry and desperate,” Clint’s shrugs, “Maybe it’s the hunger that attracts them; ravenous spirits devour the person body and soul until all they can do is eat and eat. Their family, their friends, other people-,” 

“That thing was a person?” Phil’s voice is hushed. 

“Once.” Clint admits, “And there’s much more out there than Wendigo. All the make believe monsters, they’re all real.” 

Phil’s quiet a moment. “And the café? It’s for…for…all the customers are these make believe monsters –,” 

“For Night Folk, yeah,” Clint nods heavily, “Only they can find it –or humans with magic. S’why you’ve needed help getting to us –I’ve got no clue how you managed to find us the first time.” 

“And it really moves –every night it moves…I’m not going crazy.” Phil brings a rough hand to rub at his temple and the growing headache there. It’s a lot to take in. 

“I knew you weren’t.” There’s a little smirk in Clint’s voice.

“What are you, Clint?” He has to know. Because this man…this Night person in front of him is at once beautiful and terrifying, even with his glamour on. 

Clint quickly ducks his head; some of the downy feathers peeking through as he rubs his clawed hands together trying to draw up more of a glamour to cover himself completely, “Sorry, I-,”

“No, don’t...” Barton halts, frozen, like a startled rabbit, “I caught glimpses of these feathers before and I thought I was losing it –I really did,” Seeing the café owner flinch back he hurries, “truly, Clint. I just want to understand.” 

And Clint really can’t say no to this human in front of him. He should be terrified! Phil should have been out of here ages ago; and Clint should have damn well told him the first chance he got instead of hiding it away-,

“I’m uh…part hawk,” He ducks his head, letting some of the rusty feathers brush past Phil’s fingers, “part Sidhe –maybe a little Harpy thrown in somewhere…it’s complicated.” Barton mumbles. No human ever called him beautiful before. He knows what he is; a circus freak, a monster, a mutt of a Night Thing. He knows that. But the officer is ploughing on ahead. 

“Why tonight? Why am I seeing all these things now? Before it was just glimpses,” Phil wonders. 

“It’s the curse, Phil.” Clint can’t look at Coulson, not for this, can’t face him for this, “You’re cursed –and drinking at the café probably didn’t hurt. Getting a face full of Wendigo could have done it too…”

“Excuse me?” the officer’s brow furrows. 

“Eating and drinking Night Folk food -, I didn’t realize you didn’t know at first, I wouldn’t have -, I’d have been more careful, made a regular coffee or something, but you were here, right, so I thought-,”

“Not that! I –you said I’m cursed?” And while Phil had reluctantly accepted Wendigos and moving restaurants and the hauntingly beautiful man in front of him this was where he was drawing the line. 

“Your chest –you got stabbed –it wasn’t,” Clint huffs out a huge breath like it’s been fighting him this whole time, “Coulson, whoever stabbed you put a curse on you. That’s why you’re cold all the time –that’s why your left arm shakes…” It’s why he’s getting colder; it’s what’s killing him. But Clint feels those words trap ugly and thick in his throat. How do you tell a guy that he survived a knife to the chest just to freeze to death? 

Phil Coulson’s face is a mask as his hand reaches up to touch the tight ropes of scar tissue under his shirt and the cold deep beneath that. 

Cursed. 

He’s cursed. 

All the nights he’s woken up shaking, the cold no hot shower or warm blanket could ward off…he’s cursed.

“I’m so sorry, Coulson. I didn’t know how to tell you.” Clint’s voice sounds meek and small and like he really is sorry for it –for everything. The officer looks off into the empty street like he’s working through something bigger than himself and Clint sighs, “I’ll…I’ll just give you a minute.”

Clint goes back inside the café where Kate’s still mopping up the slush that was the Wendigo. The remaining customers have gone back to their drinks and their food –Wanda ringing up a few ghosts and a Kodama who pays her in acorns and chestnuts and maple keys which spin into the cash register like little whirligigs. 

“How’s he doing?” Kate asks, the mop wringing itself out into a plastic bucket. 

“Best he can, I guess –it’s just a lot to take in all in one night. Figure he could use some space.” Clint shrugs with a pout,   
“Didn’t want to scare him.” 

“Any more than he already has been?” Kate tries. 

“Something like that.” Clint says, spotting the glittering gleam of Phil’s badge and wallet underneath one of the tables. The metal badge is heavy in his hands and so are the Witch’s words in his ears. He needs something of Phil’s to bring back –to maybe save his life. 

An acorn from the till will do nicely. “If you come back bring a new name for everything.” He hums and the scent of fresh air rises as a second badge –identical in weight and look –appears in place of the acorn. 

“This seems like something you shouldn’t be doing.” Kate leans in to get a look –mop still in hand, “I’m serious, Clint –Hunters would probably write you up for sneaking officer officer’s badge.” 

“It’ll be fine, Katie, I’m great at sneaking.” Clint tries as he tucks Phil’s real badge into his back pocket and casting one last small spell; the fake badge fades away –gone off to Phil’s coat pocket as though it had never left. 

“You’re also great at bad choices.” Kate calls at his retreating back. By the time Clint reaches the front door he finds that the policeman has already headed home and dawn a few hours away. 

“Futz”


	5. The Monsters Under Your Bed Are Real

Phil had returned home and soundly locked the door tightly behind him. He’s still wonderfully warm from the heat spell but exhausted from the night –he can still feel Clint’s calloused, clawed hand against his chest. His head is heavy and full from…everything as he leans heavily against his doorway.

Clint the charming café owner isn’t human. 

The café he runs moves each night. 

Magic –as far as he understands it –is real. 

Monsters are real. 

Phil supposes he already knew that, being a cop he’s had to see some pretty vicious stuff and none of the guilty parties could claim it was because many starving spirits turned them into a Wendigo in a moment of weakness. 

He was attacked tonight. 

Phil could have died; that Wendigo wanted to eat him … and could have if not for Clint. Clint who isn’t human either. 

For a moment Phil Coulson isn’t sure he can go back to the café, and the thought makes his heart hurt –the image of Clint’s beautiful rust-coloured wings in his mind. His kind smile, the warm drinks he served. 

The dawn’s sun just starts to lick the sky and his eyes can’t keep themselves open. Phil collapses into bed, drawing all the blankets around himself like a child hiding from the things he’s found real under his bed or in his closet. He’s asleep in seconds. 

It’s well past dawn, morning enough for Clint to be feeling less sore, if not tired from the night on the job and mind whirring from Wendigo to Phil and the badge in his back pocket. He’s thrown on a hasty glamour and gotten himself over to Magda’s Coven. 

“You look awful.” Billy Kaplan opens the door with a cup of coffee in hand. It smells heavenly and Clint makes a point of not making grabby hands for the mug in front of the young Witch. 

“Let him in, Billy,” Magda’s calls, drawing them into the neat little brownstone towards the lovely warm kitchen. A few Witches sit nursing their own mugs at a table covered in placemats and bowls of cereal and bits of parchment. Clint drops his glamour –which is a relief, he’s cast enough spells in the last twenty-four that it’ll be a struggle getting home without getting an exposure charge. 

A few of the younger Witches eye his wings and his haunting features with more than a little shock, and a sudden alertness that wasn’t there when he’d looked merely human. A few look like they’re debating if Clint’s presence will lead to a fight, perched on the edges of their chairs at the breakfast table. 

“It’s alright, girls, Mr. Barton is our guest.” A few relax their shoulders –the smart ones keep their eyes tracking the Hawk-and Clint finds a cup of tea in his clawed hands which he really really wishes was coffee. 

“You have something for us, Mr. Barton.” Magda looks up from a book she’s propped up on the table as she nibbles toast with honey. Bright autumn sunlight pools in from the large glass windows behind her –potted plants and tiny herbs adorn the windowsills. 

“This will work, right?” Clint hands over the badge and the rest of the coven take their mugs and bowls and parchments elsewhere as their matriarch does business.  
Magda sizes it up, looking it up and down, “I will resist asking how you got this.” And then, sensing Clint’s impatience she glances his way with a small smile, “It will do. All I ask in return for this favour is for you to give me one of your feathers before you leave this house today.” 

Clint nods, it’s a simple request –she could have asked for far more, and likely is only asking to appease Barton’s Fae sensibilities. He’s not going to screw with Magda. She’s a good lady. The Hawk pucks out a loose downy feather and offers it to the Witch, “We’re square.” He says.

“Yes we are. Now drink your tea before it gets cold.” The Matriarch smiles accepting their deal sealed kindly. 

Clint’s not sure if he should be waiting around –how long will this procedure take? He was hoping Magda would have his answer in a few hours, but this magic was much beyond Clint’s skill and he didn’t really know what to expect. A quick sip of the tea tells him it’s the same stuff he got last time, the itch of his healing fingers soothing down. 

“Billy will see you out –I’ll let you know when we’ve got something for you.” The coven matriarch announces.

“I’m kind of on a deadline with this-,” The Hawk reminds.

“We will do our best, Good Neighbour.” And with that Magda rises from the table, badge and book in hand leaving Billy to escort Clint to the door. 

Barton can’t go home –he can, and he wants to, but it’s empty there and his head’s so full. He has to see Nat. The walk is long and he tries to stick to small back streets and away from as many humans as he can. This last glamour’s really taking it out of him. 

Nat’s building looks different in the daytime. A two-story cottage-like home with ivy clinging to the brick; well cared for amongst a small cul-de-sac of well cared for houses. At night Clint can imagine hers is the only house here, but in the day the three other homes make him a little more cautious of his comings and goings. 

Nat answers the door in a long t-shirt that looks like one of his and short pajama pants on two very human-looking legs, red hair in a tumble of wavy curls like licks of fire. She has her own glamour on and Clint realizes that he must look like shit compared to her. 

“You woke me up.” She accuses before pulling him inside by his sleeve, “You look awful.” 

“I do my best.” Clint tries, but she’s already pulling him towards the kitchen –sparsely stocked because Spider’s food is rather…unique –and not for Clint. But there’s deer meat in the freezer and a rabbit too; Clint will eat those. 

“Tell me.” She says instead of wasting his time. 

“A Wendigo got into the café. Went after Phil. I didn’t have a whole lot of choice, Nat.” Clint says as they wait for the rabbit to warm up in the oven. 

“The same Wendigo that attacked and killed a Hunter across town?” She wonders, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter. 

“What? Futz -, I don’t know, Nat. It wasn’t like I had time to ask.” Clint groans, rubbing his brow.

“He knows about the curse?” Natasha abandons Clint’s train of thought, putting the kettle on for tea. 

“Yeah.” Clint rests his head against the cool table top. He’s so tired he could drop his glamour but wings in the kitchen aren’t always the best idea.

“Does he know, Clint?” The Spider pushes into the quiet between them, arms folded as she waits for the kettle to whistle. 

“No. Phil doesn’t know he’s gonna freeze to death.” Clint murmurs, “And I’m gonna fix it before he does. I don’t want him worrying about it, Natasha.” 

A plate of hot, raw rabbit meat is put in front of him and the conversation ends –she lets it go as he eats. His glamour slips enough that his claws tear through the carcass, his eyes shift to gold, and ruffled feathers break out in his hair. Clint’s back aches something fierce as he holds onto his wings –he’s not shredding another shirt. 

Clint gulps down the rabbit as quickly as he can, bones and fur and sinew and all; the Hawk wastes nothing of the free meal. 

“Come, little bird, time to sleep.” Nat takes his clean plate and pushes Clint towards the worn stairs that lead up to her rooms. Natasha’s second floor is hers –the real her -and she sheds her glamour easily on the steps; eight black legs and a deep red hourglass. Black, glimmering eyes blink open across her brow like glittering jewels in the light. The scars she wears in this form are less visible but Clint’s eyes catch them. 

The small hallway opens up into a huge, dim room of gleaming hardwood floors and delicate webs. Little spiders, some no bigger than a pinhead, hang and scuttle across the thin lines of silk.  
They’re her eyes in the city, Nat’s little spiders. 

‘Salutations’ a few whisper at their arrival, ‘Salutations’. 

Natasha helps him shed his shirt –tugging lightly at the bandage on his healing hand. “S’okay, Nat, just a burn. Hunters got a bit rough asking for my ID. The Witches took care of it.” 

She spits a curse in Russian, unwrapping his mostly healed skin, and soon there’s soft spider silk winding around his hand sticky and healing. “The coven’s hospitality is one thing, little bird; the Hunter’s should never have touched you.”

Clint’s too tired to talk about it. He lets the glamour go and shudders as his wings unfold from his back.

“M’a mutt, Nat.” He sighs, “Phil’ll never wanna see me again –M’a monster.” 

Leaning into Nat he lets her lead him to the nest of deep cushions and blankets, “Monsters come in many forms, pretty little bird, and this,” She brushes a soft kiss against his brow, “is not one of them. Now sleep. My spiders will keep watch.” 

Phil is late for work the next day. He’d contemplated shooting his alarm and the waiting stack of old cases on his desk don’t really do much to inspire him to get out of bed. Coffee will be Phil’s drug of choice today. 

Phil ducks the waiting papers and decides to do a little digging; Clint Barton’s name doesn’t come up on his computer. No priors or records or anything so there’s that. But then again Phil’s pretty sure Night Folk –that’s what Clint had called them? –didn’t get police warrants. Like that Wendigo wasn’t going to get brought in to sweat it out in holding while they waited for a lawyer.  
Phil’s body shivers tightly at the memory –his arm tremoring as his curse acts up. He feels like a dick for looking Clint up in the system; the man had saved Phi’s life last night (this morning?), but Coulson’s hungry for any information he can get about this new world he’s stumbled upon. 

He’s about to type the café’s name up into a search engine when he realizes the place doesn’t even have a name; no sign over the door or on the chalkboard outside. And Google Maps is going to have a hard time pinning down a building that moves every night. Where would one get a building permit for that? Are there even reviews for Night Folk restaurants? 

Phil can just see it now; the food was good, the service was excellent and a frozen cannibal snow monster broke in and tried to eat a customer –five stars!

Calling it quits, the officer turns his attention to the waiting backlog. He dearly misses being out on his beat with Jasper; he’d sure feel like he was doing more than working his way towards carpel tunnel. Phil makes one last trip to the break room coffee machine before hacking his way through the pile of files.  
It must be noon when he finds it. Another photo, another child; just like little Eman, Gabriela’s parents were dead (not gutted this time but dead none the less), and she was gone without a trace. Phil looks at the crime photos of a small shoe by the doorway and a home turned upside down. 

Phil sighs, hand coming to rub at his creased brow as he looks at little Gabriela’s home; potted plants toppled and furniture upturned…and roots…plant roots growing into the floorboards. Phil’s eyes catch on this oddity and he’s suddenly skimming the police report. Neighbour’s phoned it in, parents dead, Gabriela gone. And plants all over the place; not just in pots but vines on the walls and ferns seeming to grow from the floorboards –the worst of it in the room where Gabriela’s parents lay. The house remains unsold; the city set to demolish it tomorrow –finally –after a lot of careful planning on how to tear apart a building basically being held up by plants. 

Before last night –before the last few months –Phil would have shrugged it off. The reporting officers had; must have been some kind of messed up plant hoarders, the neighbours had said the family was a bunch of hippies, but now? Now Phil’s not so sure. 

Clint had said his regulars were disappearing. 

Oh...

Phil’s out of his office chair marching towards the records room. No one bothers too much with the dusty basement locker where all the old cases go. It’s dark and it’s quiet and somewhere in there there’s a file with little Eman’s name on it. He's happy that no one’s around to see him studying the old photos of Eman’s parents’ bloody bodies the floor around them strewn with feathers. He’d shrugged them off before; it was weird but not something that screamed monsters. 

Phil suddenly feels very cold, his left arm tremors enough for him to drop the crime pictures he’s holding and they flutter to the concrete floor. Coulson's pushing away from the cabinets of files to desperately try and rub warmth into his arms and chest. Just this morning he’d found out about Clint and the café and that he’s got a curse curled up in between his ribs, that doesn’t mean that everything he sees is waiting to jump out and bite him. 

Don’t be dumb, Phil, he thinks between shivers.

And what could he do if it was? 

What if Eman and Gabriela were Night Folk and they’d been disappeared just like Clint had said? What was Phil, a human police officer, supposed to do? He’d been pretty useless against that Wendigo, and he’s fighting blind here. Officer Coulson doesn’t know the first damn thing about Night Folk or about what he’s walking into here.

But a certain café owner might. 

It had crossed the officer’s mind not to go back; being attacked by a literal monster is usually enough to scare off most people, but Clint had saved his life and in the weight of finding out…everything…he’d left without a thank you. Never mind that the thought of not seeing Clint’s face again, his smile, makes Coulson’s innards tighten up. 

And besides, Phil’s never really been a guy who runs from his troubles. 

Fury would never allow Coulson to take off with the casefile, but Phil has a cellphone that works. He snaps a picture of Eman’s school photo –and then goes for the other old cold cases he’d sent down earlier in the week to grab their pictures and information too. Tucking the files back into their places, Phil goes back to his desk, backing up the cold case files onto a thumb drive he swiftly tucks into his pocket and starts signing out for the day. 

He’s got some searching to do if he’s going to find a café that moves every night.


	6. Home Visit

“Clint’s phone.” Nat answers a little grumpily. She’s just finished a hunt when Clint’s cell that she swiped before she put his clothes in the wash rings. So much for enjoying a meal in peace. The man beneath her had told her every secret he’d had and now the Widow would like to get to him before his blood turns cold. 

She’s expecting the young voice of that Witch Clint had taken in or the little pure blood Sidhe girl who works at the café, but it’s a man’s voice instead. 

“Who is this?” Natasha can practically hear his brow crinkle. She wasn’t who he was expecting either.

“You must be Phil,” She guesses instead of outright hanging up like she wants to. Nat’s curious about this cursed man who’s got Clint all wound up, “Clint’s a little busy right now-,” 

“Oh. I uh…was just wondering if the café was…around tonight,” Phil’s voice sounds more than a little put out and Nat’s brows arch. Was that disappointment?

Fascinating.

“Every night,” Nat assures with a sweet smile to her voice, “follow the cold, you can’t miss it –he’ll be there tonight waiting for you.” And she hangs up. Her meal’s waiting and Phil the human will find that as the curse spreads in his chest the clearer the world gets. 

Phil stares at his phone for a moment after Natasha hangs up on him; more than a little curious who the lovely-sounding lady answering Clint’s phone was. He doesn’t want to think of the flares of jealousy and confusion he’s feeling. They’d been on one date and kissed –sort of –just once. 

Hardly commitment. 

So Phil tries to put it away and focus on finding the café –if it’s even open, if Clint’s not still…busy. Gabriella and Emen need him to see this through. He’s looked up Gabriella’s place, done a little digging on his own, and discovered that the city is planning to finally tear the plant-ridden house down. If Phil wants to investigate it needs to be now. He needs to see Clint tonight.  
His chest does this little flip-flop thing at the thought of the café owner who he’d been assured was waiting for him before reminding himself not to get his hopes up. 

‘Follow the cold’ the lovey-sounding woman had said, ‘follow the cold’. The cold was from the curse and the curse was what had opened his eyes to all this in the first place…

“Follow the cold.” He murmurs to himself, focusing on the little shiver in between his ribs. It flares a little with the attention setting a shake running through Phil despite the warm coat he’s wearing. It was this thing that had let him glimpse Clint’s feathers; to see even a part of the café owner for what he is…maybe it would help him see the way. Maybe he just had to follow the cold. 

>>>\-------------------->

Clint’s awake to the smell of raw meat wafting in from downstairs. His nest of blankets and pillows is far too warm for him to want to leave but the smell of rabbit is a good motivator. Clint finds he’s dressed in just his shorts and a hoodie –one of his that he must have left at Nat’s –and that his hand doesn’t hurt anymore. The webbing comes away when his claws tear at it and he finds the iron burn is completely gone. 

Clint’s guts growl. There’s more than rabbit in the air, though, and the little spiders have spun he words ‘GONE OUT’ in their webs. Natasha has a bimonthly hunting permit; something not easily won, which means she gets to eat properly this month too. The sun is weighing on the horizon, heavy and blazing with autumn’s coming evening where Nat is surely on the hunt.

Clint’s lucky his diet doesn’t need a permit. 

The rabbit is warm and bloody still and he wishes he’d had the chance to hunt it himself. It tastes better that way –like he earned it. But even birds will scavenge if they have to and Clint knows not to turn down a free meal. 

The front door opens and Natasha steps through, glamour in place and looking flawless despite the blood under her fingernails that Clint knows will be there. He doesn’t bother to ask how the hunt went as he stuffs more meat into his mouth. The sun’s sinking; the café will need to be opened. 

Natasha snatches his healed hand as he makes to get up, putting the bloody plate in the sink, “That looks much better.” She says, inspecting the new skin. Her glamour starts to lift a little; Clint can see her black, jewel-like eyes. She’s beautiful, in or out of her webs. And a good friend.

“Doesn’t itch anymore.” Clint agrees around a mouthful of bunny. Nat’s nose wrinkles but she smiles at him anyway. 

“There’s some spare clothes in the closet –take care tonight, little bird.” And she kisses his nose lightly –a quick teasing peck that makes Clint wonder what she’s up to. Nat tucks his cell into the pocket of Clint’s fresh jeans as he slips a glamour on; wings tucking tight against his back before melting into his skin and away from sight. 

The way to the café is easy for Clint; he whistles a tune as he walks, slipping into the first alleyway he finds and just following the song. Soon small lights appear like strung ornaments on the brick walls casting a soft welcoming glow and the passageway he’s chosen opens out into a small cobblestone plaza. His shop stands with the lamps out and the stone guardians watching. The magic locks and wards hum up against him with the smell of burnt out candles and clean straw as he sings bright in the dusky night; the lamps flicker to life warming the deep shadows. The stone statues mouths open, their candles light as Clint takes the steps two at a time to unlock the door and leave out a fresh plate of cheese and milk.

“If you’re singing Disney songs again to open up, I’m going home.” Kate’s voice makes him look up. Wanda’s with her finishing off some of the spells and setting out the chalk board. 

‘No Shirt  
No Shoes  
No Thank You  
Service’

“You know we have a delivery tonight.” Kate reminds as they start pulling bar stools down and lighting the fire in the great hearth.

“Awww, delivery day, no.” Clint grumbles having forgotten about it, but already he can hear the clip clop of hooves and the cart coming through the alleyways. The two large horses; a chestnut and a black, feathered heavy hooves and supple leather bridals clip clop through the winding plaza and towards the lights of Clint’s café. The heavy green-trimmed wooden cart will need emptying before the shop opens, Clint and Wanda tying their aprons on and heading out to meet the team. 

“Ya could be faster about it, boyo!” The short, stout Leprechaun, a thick red beard, huge ears and a pipe between his yellow teeth shouts from the seat of his cart. “The night’s not getting younger!”  
Clint gets an order form tossed his way as Wanda goes to help carry boxes out. The cart towers inside; tall walls and deep halls of boxes and packs and bags of all manner of things –the driver will have a long night ahead of him. 

“Careful with that lot, girly –ain’t gonna make two trips if ya fuckin’ blow anything up.” The Leprechaun scowls making his beady orange eyes scrunch and his mustache wriggle like a live caterpillar. 

“Enough, Pat,” Clint grumbles as he flips through the pages; eggs, milk, meat, honey comb, sage, tobacco –all kinds of herbs and nuts and tree bark for their more particular customers –it’s all here. Even the thick marrow-filled bones, even the seven packs of human and pig blood Clint has to sign off for on five different lines, “Wanda hasn’t blown anything up in a while.” 

“See that she don’t.” Pat points a stubby, gnarled finger Clint’s way. The Leprechaun comes up to Clint’s hip but he has an attitude as tall as a skyscraper –and a few sharp spells of his own. Not to mention breath that’s rank enough to blow a dragon down. 

Clint’s signing for the last of it when the three Hunters emerge from the alleyway and into the plaza; their boots clipping sharply on the cobbles, “You there, Third Division –stop what you’re doing, licences and registrations, let’s see em’.” None of them has bothered with a concealment spell –there aren’t any non-magic humans around to get an eyeful. 

“Wanda, go inside.” Clint quietly instructs, hoping they won’t be paying the young Witch any mind. He’s not going to let his staff be interrogated. 

“What’s all this, then?” Pat demands, snatching the reigns to his horses and looking for all the world like he might swing himself back up onto the seat of his cart and be off before any Hunter could stop him, “I ain’t breaking no Treaties –all above board, ye great-,” 

“Two division Hunters were killed last night by a Wendigo –licence and registration.” The first Hunter has his hair shaved right down; he smells like cigarettes and he’s not having it. He’s got his own badge out and each finger is decked with silver and iron rings, tattoos over his knuckles are charms and spells. 

“And we’re going to need to check the cart for contraband.” The second Hunter is just as tall with a short cut of brown hair and gloves on, a scar over his forehead. Clint can smell the small curse it left on him and has it on his tongue to ask how his migraines have been going but Pat isn’t keen. 

“Wendigo munchin’ Hunter’s ain’t no business of mine – I got enough stops to make tonight without you lot –an’ all of em’ legal.” He snaps. 

“We have the right to search you and seize any contraband we find –don’t make this harder for yourself.” The third Hunter tuts; clean-shaven and thin like a rail. A necklace with a bright protection charm on it hangs about his neck. 

“Come on, guys, we’re trying to run a business here,” Clint steps up, hands open and splayed; Pat’s foul mouth and short temper will get them all charged for sure and he can’t have these goons scaring off customers. Of course Hunter number two is less keen on Night folk walking up on him, Clint finds himself grabbed and spun –his face pressed to the wood of the cart, a horse whinnying and Pat cussing up a storm. 

“We tracked,” The Hunter holding Clint’s wrist snarls as he digs out the café owner’s wallet, “that Wendigo to this place, Night freak, so you’re gonna want to answer me nice and easy now, none of your hocus-pocus bullshit.” 

“What the hell?!” Kate’s voice is sharp from the front steps, “who do you creeps think you are?” 

“Kate -,” Clint warns. Her iron burns will be much worse than his and last longer –and her knowe won’t be keen on sending her out again if she comes back damaged. And Clint won’t forgive himself for letting his people get hurt. 

The third Hunter is tearing through the back of the cart, flipping boxes and searching crates as Pat scowls and swears. “All looks legal –no contraband.” He calls –slashing the pints of blood so they spill over the insides of the cart. Pat swears creatively. 

“Clinton Barton –a Sidhe-Shifter mutt, no high level spells cast in the last 48 –lucky you,” The hunter dumps out Clint’s wallet, cards and coins bouncing off the cobbles, “even got your own place in town –a freak playing human. Your neighbours know you’re a man-eater, Night thing?” 

“Actually, I mostly eat pizza –or rabbits -,” This earns Clint a slam into the cart causing his cheek to smart.

“Hey-!” Kate snaps, marching towards them only to be shoved back by the first Hunter, “get your hands off of him –I am so reporting you!”

“Did you, or did you not, have a Wendigo in your establishment last night, Tinkerbell?” The Hunter manhandling Clint asks. He’s got no eyes for Kate or her protests. For a good minute Clint thinks about letting his power flare, his glamour fall away and remind these Hunters why the Good Neighbours were rightly feared in the old days.

“Yeah –tried to eat one of my customers –kinda bad for business, so I turned him into a snow cone,” Clint growls, “He’s dead. You’re welcome.” 

And this is, of course, when Phil Coulson shows up. 

The café’s lanterns are freshly lit, the alleyway he’s walked through bright and glowing like strung Christmas lights, but the scene before Phil isn’t a calm one. The wagon is small, but still taller than the men in black dusters and padded vests; one holding Kate back as she shouts for them to let her boss go. A short, stout man with a smart green coat and a frizzy red beard is hollering curses and trying to calm his horse. And Clint; face mashed against the wood of the wagon, wrists held roughly behind his back –Phil shouts, going for his own badge.  
Phil storms up with the weight of his own title behind him, “What the hell is going on here?” 

“Coulson-?” Clint’s voice is bewildered –Phil found them, he got here on his own –but it quickly turns to fear, “No –Phil!,” 

The third lanky Hunter’s got his wand out in a flash, “Immotus,” he snaps the word like a whip and Clint can smell raw onion and copper pennies of his magic. Phil Coulson’s body slows, like he’s walking through thick muck, until he freezes completely. The officer’s trying, though, eyes wide and body shivering slightly as he fights to make himself work it out and move. 

“Phil, don’t fight it –,” Clint tries to coach the human through it while silently praying that nobody will notice the police badge Coulson’s still holding is really an acorn. That would not be good. 

“A Mundane cop,” The lean Hunter observes with a bit of shock as he eyes Phil’s side blue and glowing light between his ribs, “with a nasty curse-,” 

“He’s a regular –leave him out of this.” Clint growls, struggling against the grip of the Hunter at his back. 

“He’s interrupting an official investigation.” the Hunter holding Clint back gives him another shove into the side of the cart scuffing his face against the painted wood. 

“I’m telling you I killed the Wendigo you’re after last night when it busted up my place!” Clint hollers, his feathers fluff up in anger, his gold eyes flare; this is exactly what he wanted to avoid, this is exactly what he didn’t want for Phil. The man had stood up to a Wendigo but Hunters were a different breed all together. 

“He’s telling the truth.” Phil’s words are quiet and slow but there, ground out through the spell, “I saw it.”

The lean Hunter’s wand is at his brow, tip pressing into Phil’s skin. He’s close enough that Phil can smell his cologne and see the peak of a tattoo on his wrist just beneath the leather of his jacket;  
“Spectaculum,” he speaks and Clint’s feathers ruffle at the stench of pennies and onions –that twice now these thugs have used magic on Phil tonight –but instead of tearing out of the Hunter’s hold like he’s thinking he should have ages ago, Clint’s eyes widen as an arora borealis of Phil’s memories erupt across the air lighting up the plaza. 

Phil’s work-covered desk in the precinct bands across the sky, mediocre coffee from this afternoon flickers in lights through the air for them to see. Phil squints at it, the wand still at his brow too stunned to fight the spell holding him still. 

The brush of Clint’s hand against his chest last night, the heat spell warming him inside and out ---and the Wendigo. Big and frozen full of teeth and hunger ready to swallow Phil down –Clint there, his bow drawn and ready, head haloed by the light of the café…

“Well, look at that.” The Hunter holding Clint swears. 

And then pain. 

Phil feels the cold rear up in his chest, licking over his ribs, gripping his guts; his body would shake if it weren’t held still in a spell. The borealis turns frozen as the image of a blade in the night cuts across the air. Cuts into Phil and curses him. 

“You have heart.” The voice is a sneer in the darkness, colder than the frost spreading in Phil’s chest.

Clint’s watching Officer Coulson’s body slide to the floor –Jasper, his collogue, his friend, with him in an instant –blood seeping from Phil’s lips. He wants to look away from it, he shouldn’t be seeing this, but Clint can’t stop watching. 

“Stay with me, Phil-,” The man begs, “stay with me.” 

And then the arora is gone, snapping back turning the alley dark again –lit only by the lamps. Phil’s body is moving again; a lurch forward as the spell holding him lets go. 

“You got what you’re looking for,” Kate snaps as the Hunter holding Clint roughly lets him go; tossing his wallet and ID back at him. Clint’s shoving away towards Phil’s barely-upright shivering figure. He pauses a moment before helping the man stand, unsure if Coulson will want to be touched or if he’ll even want to see Clint after last night, but the officer seems to sway towards the warmth –towards Clint and the café owner supports him with an arm around his shoulder. 

Pat’s already swearing and swinging himself up into the driver’s seat, growling about how late he is as he drives away, horse hooves clattering down through the alleyways and on to his next stops.  
“We’re going to need an official report filed out,” One of the three Hunters passes Clint some papers, “Drop them off by the end of the week.” And they’re gone. 

“Not even a ‘thank you’ or a ‘sorry for the harassment’?” Kate grumbles, knowing full well the Hunters would never risk thanking a Sidhe–not even a half-breed like Clint, “I’m reporting every last one of them.” She snatches the papers from Clint.

“Who were they?” Phil demands, pocketing his badge and trying to rub some warmth back into his arms as he shakes. Kate might report them but Phil will definitely get them on assaulting an officer --you know…as long as they’re not some kind of weird mutant vampire ghosts and could actually be arrested –Phil really wishes he had more intel here. 

“Hunters,” Clint says, “Are you okay –Coulson, how did you even get here by yourself?” 

“I’m fine,” Phil’s pretty sure he’s fine –freezing, but fine, “I followed the cold.” 

“Followed the what now?” Clint’s not sure he heard right but he knows he can’t just stand here and watch the officer shiver much longer, “May I?” Barton holds his glamour-covered hand up hesitantly, like he had for the first heat spell. 

Phil nods a little hesitantly; he’s had about enough of spellwork for one night but if it comes from Clint he’s confident it’ll be safe enough to chase the cold away. Still…he can’t help remembering the woman’s voice on the phone. A part of him which still feels that tug of jealousy and embarrassment doesn’t want to accept Barton’s help. He shouldn’t get attached. 

“Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say it’s all right.” Clint hums, and the sweet smell of straw fills the air between them as heat blossoms fully formed and enough to take the bite from the frost in Phil’s bones. The officer feels like he can breathe a little easier and Clint watches his shoulders drop a bit like the man had been holding himself tight. 

I’m going to fix this –Clint assures himself. The Witches will come through and I’m going to fix this. 

“The cold’s because of the curse and you said the curse is how I can see…” he waves his hand around at the café and the plaza and Clint, “I followed the cold. And found you resisting arrest.”

“I wasn’t resisting –,” Barton argued.

“And the Hunters?” Phil asks.

“They’re like cops but for Night Folks.” Clint sighs heavily, rubbing a hand against his still smarting cheek, “Way back when they got too heavy handed and the Dark Times came; Witches and Wolves getting dragged out and burned, iron dumped on Fae doorsteps – and the Night Folks gave back as good as they got--so the Treaty was made.” 

“A peace Treaty.” Phil guesses. Clint takes his hand back, quietly. He thinks about leaving most of his glamour on tonight now that he knows Phil can see him properly; Clint really doesn’t want to remind the officer of how much of a monster he really is.

“That’s the idea. Night folks and Humans came together and signed this big deal; who can live where, what kind of magic’s allowed, who can go bump on any given night. The Hunters got reassigned; now they’re supposed to keep the Dark Times from coming again, but recently?” Clint lets tonight hang in the air, his cheek red and sore from being slammed into the cart. 

“What happens if the Treaty,” Phil hears the capital T, “is broken?” 

“By Night folk or Hunters?” Clint cocks an eyebrow earning him a shrug from Phil. “Depends; a warning, a slap on the wrist, death.” Clint sighs, “There’s no jail for Wendigos or Vampires, –rouge Hunters either–and recently it’s been getting worse.” 

“Night Folk disappearing.” Coulson says as they start walking up the café steps.

“Yeah, there’s been a lot of that around lately. Not sure if it’s Hunters or something else –and the Hunters don’t seem interested in looking into it,” Barton admits, pushing open the café door and pausing in front of the tacked up photos of men and women –a few kids. Phil doesn’t recognize any of them –none of them are Eman or Gabriella’s families. 

Wanda’s finished putting the orders away and wraps Clint and Phil in tight hugs, “Are you hurt?”

“Fine,” Clint tries but Wanda’s brushing fingers against his cheek, “it looks worse than it is. I’ll grab a band aid –we got customers coming.”

The café fills up quickly despite the earlier ruckus. Two heavy women, naked and pale except for the thick seal skins wrapped about them, slap dripping wet feet across the warm floor tracking seaweed and beach-water (which Kate follows along with a mop), a couple Gnomes take a booth by the far window leaving Clint to seat the large table to a party of spotted hyenas –their laughter echoing through the rafters as their bodies change from into human shapes. 

Phil’s got his phone out when Clint swings back behind the bar to serves a tall glass of cold salty ice water to a long-haired Qallupilluit two seats over.

“Hey –look, I know tonight sucked -last night too, but I’m glad that you’re okay and that you came back,” Clint looks shy, “Really, Coulson. I’m glad you didn’t give up on this place.” And on Clint himself. 

“I’m going to be honest; last night was not what I was expecting. But I couldn’t not…,” the ‘thank you’ gets caught in his throat and his words halt, “I mean, I didn’t get a chance to say-,” the more he fights it the harder and father away the words get; like the thanks is dancing at the periphery of his brain and he can just see it but can’t remember how to make the sounds. 

“There’s a No Thank You spell on the café,” Kate, passing by with a tray of pig’s feet, takes pity; “You can’t say the words and you really shouldn’t anyway. Means you’ll owe him.” And she disappears back behind the till to ring up a tall Sasquatch who has to bend his head to avoid the rafters. 

“So no….” Phil trips over the word again. 

“Nope.” Clint shrugs and presses on with his eyes downcast on the bar he’s started to wipe down, “It’s just safer for everyone that way.” 

“Alright,” the officer moves on, “Beyond last night’s events, I’d been logging some old cold cases and I saw this.” Phil turns his phone for the café owner to see Gabriella’s smiling face. Clint’s face goes serious as Phil flips through the photos of Gabriella and her parents and their home ransacked. 

“You said some of the Night Folk have been disappearing and I wondered if she was one of them.” Phil wonders.

“The Alamilla’s –yeah, their girl’s been missing over a year –the Human cops got involved in this?” Clint’s eyebrows pinch as he studies the photo. 

“Got involved and let it go when the trail led cold.” Phil confirms sadly, “We had no leads, no witnesses –they were a good family, if a little weird about their plants-,”

“They were forest spirits,” Clint says, eyes locked on the screen, “Coulson, how many cases you got like this?” 

Coulson pockets his phone with a sigh, “I’m not sure, but after last night I’ve been re-evaluating what’s impossible and what’s not. If I can confirm that the Alamilla’s were Night Folk who’ve disappeared, then I’m looking at a different case altogether. Maybe I can find out what happened to them.” 

Clint’s standing up a little straighter behind the bar, defined arms crossed over his broad chest, “You’re serious?” 

“Yes, but I’m technically on desk duty since my injury. There’s no way the chief will give the go-ahead for me to investigate these cold cases so I’m on my own-,” Phil admits quietly. It shocks Clint because Phil really is serious. The Sidhe -Shifter tries to hide it from his face; a human, a mundane officer, this man who just got here –as unequipped as he is –planned on run out there to find some missing Night Folk. 

“So don’t go on your own.” Clint’s leaning in, strong arms braced on the bar, he tosses in a grin as he offers, “I’ll help.” 

Phil’s eyebrows jump because he really wasn’t thinking he’d find a partner in crime this easily; Clint’s a café owner, not a police officer ---and he can’t help the flutter in his chest as Barton leans across the bar. 

“I can’t bring a civilian in on an official investigation, Barton.” Coulson reasons. 

“Sounds like an under-the-table investigation to me, officer,” Clint’s smile could melt butter, “And I’m not a civilian; I’m your Night Folk liaison. I’ve watched plenty of Mundane cop shows, I know lots about cops –I’m great at cops.” 

“You better be great at serving table twelve because they’ve been waiting on their order.” Kate appears behind the counter passing a tray of mugs full of warm blood for a table of Vampires who look a little restless.

“Stay until closing,” Clint asks, “if you’re looking for Night Folks you’re going to need one.”

“Tonight, Clint. Before they bite someone.” Kate shoos him along, heading back to the till to ring up a Baku with its mane of melting-wax and short trunk snuffling gold coins onto the counter.  
And Phil has to admit some level of defeat here as he watches Clint serve tables. Maybe he’d known it from the start and coming here was for more than just Clint’s say so on Gabriella. Phil can’t help tracking Clint’s smooth movements around the restaurant; rusty feathers gleaming in the light of the lamps, his fingers tipped with bright, sharp claws. He’s beautiful like this; Phil seeing him clearer now than he had at the start, like the gossamer had been lifted from his eyes. 

Coulson’s still feeling that unreasonable tug of jealously from this evening’s call –when a beautiful-sounding woman had answered Clint’s phone and purred that he’d been busy…Phil scolds himself that it wasn’t his business and that there was a case to think of. And besides, one date did not make Clint his to be jealous about. 

It didn’t. 

And he wasn’t getting attached. 

He’s not. 

Phil’s yawning when Clint tosses the keys to Wanda and Kate telling them to lock up. The last few patrons are filtering out saying their good mornings. The shop looks much bigger with no one else in it. The hearth still warm with dying embers, the kitchens cleaned the candles snuffed out. 

“Where do we start?” Barton asks, pouring Phil another coffee with a shot of espresso –no spell, just the strong stuff. 

“Are you sure about this?” Phil wants to know as he settles into Officer Coulson mode, “It could be dangerous –I’m not really sure what we’re going to be walking into here, Barton and you’ve got your own people and job to look after.” 

“There are Night Folk going missing, turning up dead and the Hunters aren’t doing a damn thing. I’m tired of us losing people. If you’re doing this, I’m going with you.” Clint’s serious, his eyes flashing gold as he looks Phil –all kidding and bluster aside. It’s enough for Coulson. 

“Alright. I need to look at the Alamilla’s place. The city’s been planning to tear it down finally and I want a look at it before they do –maybe we missed something we didn’t know we needed to look for.” Phil writes down the address and shows Clint before taking a sip of the pitch black coffee.

“I didn’t know the Alamilla’s that well. They came by a few nights –but their pictures were all over for months.” Clint admits, “Sunrise is in another two hours -,” 

“That’s a factor?” Phil lifts a brow.

“Kinda,” Clint looks sheepish, feathers ruffling a little, like he’s not really up for talking about it. 

“Right. Okay -,” Phil says after a moment of quiet. He re-evaluates and Clint’s surprised the officer’s letting it go, “It’ll be too late to get there this morning –the Alamilla’s lived right across town, but if we get there early enough we can beat the demolition crew -,” 

“Or,” Clint says, opening the till and dropping a gold bar with two rings big enough to fit fingers onto the bar, “we could get there faster.” 

“Brass knuckles?” Phil guesses, eyeing the glinting metal before him but unwilling to touch it in case it bites or turns people into toads. 

“Sling Ring –a training one good for one trip –customers get creative with their payments.” Clint corrects, “It opens temporary portals to pretty much anywhere.” 

“Of course it does,” Phil deadpans picking up the ring to inspect its simple appearance now that he’s confident getting nipped is off the table, “What kind of tab did this customer rack up to pay you with that?” 

“Tea mostly.” Clint shrugs, “I’ve never used one but I’ve seen it done. It’s pretty simple magic –unless you’d rather we wait?” Clint doesn’t want to press more magic onto Phil than he has to. And Phil himself will be glad to not see another spell tonight, thanks –not after those Hunters demonstrated how out of his depth he is here. A shiver slides up his spine too quick to hide. 

“We don’t have all night.” Phil gets up from his stool at the bar, fingers tight over the ring. 

“You sure?” Clint rounds the bar. 

“Time’s not our friend, Barton.” Coulson hands over the ring, his face a tight mask of professionalism. Squaring his shoulders, Clint slips the ring on and hums a few bars of a song kicking up his magic to the smell of clear skies. As the ring sparks to life a warm golden glow spits out sparks like a firecracker. The café owner shifts his stance –letting his right hand come up to draw a circle in the air. The ring of golden light sputters and snaps, showering coals to the floor of the café before hissing out. 

“I thought you said this was easy?” Phil insists. 

“He made it look easy-,” Clint grits out, pouring more of his magic into it until the café smelt like a barn full of fresh clean straw. The sparks leap into the air and this time make a glowing tear in the air before them leading out into the dark backyard of the Alamilla’s home. 

Phil moves forward, tentatively reaching out towards the ring of light and the darkened world beyond. The air is cooler in the Alamilla’s backyard and damp with dew. Phil can make out the sound of distant traffic and the smell of the city as he steps out into the early hours –Clint right behind him. The light from the portal they’d made quickly flickering out sending little lightning bug-like coals across the grass. They wink out almost as fast. 

The ring goes blackened and dull; their one way trip is up. 

“Sure beats traffic.” Phil mutters as he moves towards the back door; locked of course. And not a fake rock in sight. 

He’s about to throw his shoulder into it when Clint brings a human-looking hand to the doorknob and quietly sings “I changed the locks on my front door so you can’t see me anymore,” The lock budges with a squeak but only just and Clint huffs before putting his shoulder to it, “and you can’t come into my house, and you can’t lay down on my couch, I changed the locks on my front door.”  
The smell of fresh straw and clear blue skies wafts up as the door pops open, Clint ducking to the side to let the officer in first. 

“You always sing when you do that?” Phil asks, nodding at the unlocked door. 

“Most magic takes words or gestures –something to get it going –music’s just naturally magical, gives it an extra kick.” Clint keeps his voice down and tries to hide how much magic he’s used today and how little strength he has left. 

“Those Hunters back there weren’t breaking into song.” Phil reminds.

“Hunters prefer Latin because it makes them sound smart.” Clint scoffs at the idea of a bunch of up-tight division men and women singing as they make an arrest. Hell, let em’ read Clint the riot act while doing Broadway –why not? 

Phil goes for a small flashlight in his jacket pocket, pointing the beam around the mudroom and towards the interior of the house. Everything is covered in branches and moss. Roots and waxy leaves arch into the kitchen towards a towering tree trunk that has absorbed most of the living room. 

“Got a song for cleaning this up?” Phil wonders making Clint snort. 

“Not that kind of Sidhe.” And then, “Sun up’s in an hour and a half –what are we looking for?” 

“Not sure. The Alamilla’s bodies were found in the living room, no sign of the daughter. You’re saying they were some kind of forest spirits; what could have killed them? And what happened to Gabriella?” 

Clint nods, moving carefully into the kitchen. “Fire’s a big one –most woodsy types aren’t fond of fire –but I don’t smell any soot.”  
“If they used fire there wasn’t any evidence of it when we got here.” Phil confirmed stepping carefully as he can; wanting not to trip on snarled roots or disturb the crime scene any more than it already has been.

In a way it’s pretty –this forest-in-a-house. Some bright fungus has grown up around the tree trunk, some tall flowers Phil assumes are weeds grow lushly around the living room. 

“They sure fought back.” Clint touches some of the thick roots erupting from the floorboards. The places where the Alamilla’s had fallen still smell faintly of blood and the thick growth of vegetation where they’d lain tells Clint bodies had been there. 

“The coroners didn’t find anything out of place in the autopsy –no smoke in their lungs, nothing in the toxicology report.” Phil reminds, “But they’d been here a few days before we showed up.”  
Clint straightens up and heads towards the jungle that is the side hallway towards the bedrooms. Little Gabriella’s is the last door, her name painted in bright letters on a wooden hanger. The door’s a little stuck but Clint gets it and finds a room torn apart; toys scattered, blankets, pillows –a poster ripped and hanging from the wall –a lamp smashed to the floor. 

“Something came in here and no one was happy about it.” He mutters. 

“We wondered about a murder suicide-,” Phil tosses out, “but when we couldn’t find the little girl-,” 

Clint’s on his haunches touching the floorboards and the fallen leaves there, brushing fingers through moss, following the disruption out into the living room past where the parents had been…  
“Someone took her.” Clint’s voice is tight with anger, “They came in,” He’s crouched, tracking the signs; one foot to the next following the disruption in the plant growth, “confronted the parents and went for the girl.” He moves towards little Gabriella’s room and back again. 

“No one saw anything until they noticed the overgrowth and the mail piling up –if our guy knew about the Alamilla’s, and knew how to kill them, then could he know how to make it so no one would see them come or go?” Phil asks. 

Clint says, “S’possible. But no way one guy came in against two grown forest spirits and a kid. They’d have made his skull into a planter.” 

“And why take the girl?” The wailing of a lone police siren cuts through Coulson’s thoughts and both Clint and Phil startle, the Shifter moving silently to peeking through musty hanging curtains and vines around the window. Mundane cops; one white car with red and blue lights. 

“Awww, neighbourhood watch…” The café owner grumbles, turning from the window to press his back to the mossy wall. 

“We need to leave.” Phil takes charge.

“What about evidence? This is our last chance -,” Clint waved a hand towards the room at large no doubt littered with old signs that could point them towards something solid. 

“You started the night in trouble with those Hunters,” Phil reminds, nodding to Clint’s bandaged cheek, “don’t end it in trouble with the regular police; staying on this case will be a lot easier without us getting charged for breaking and entering.” 

Clint thunks his skull back against the wall and screws his eyes shut tight. Coulson’s right. The human cops will want ID and while they’re not going to figure out Clint’s Nigh Folk his ID is magically rigged so that any time it gets looked up in the regular system the Hunters know –and will find Clint –even from a holding cell –and dawn is coming. Already Clint can hear the boots of two police officers taking the porch. 

Phil is pulling him away from the wall and shoving Clint down the hallway towards Gabriella’s room. “Stay –wait half an hour once I leave, the patrol should move on by then.” He whispers before shutting the door as best he can and leaving Clint in the dark. 

“Coulson -,” Clint protests as loudly as he dares but already he can hear the officer making for the mudroom they’d come through and out into the yard. Confident like an officer on his beat, not a man breaking and entering. 

The air outside is cooler in the coming dawn, the breeze damp with the dew gathering on the grass as Officer Coulson steps out into the yard, pulling his badge out and schooling himself with his little flashlight to look like he’s been found just now as another dressed officer approaches.

“Police! Stop what you’re –Phil?” The bright light from her own flashlight makes Phil squint but he recognises the voice. Officer Victoria Hand from the 34th precinct and a good friend of Fury’s,  
“What are you doing here?” 

“Couldn’t sleep so I took myself out for a walk; thought I spotted someone snooping around the back so I came in to check it out.” Phil puts on the fib and shrugs the whole thing off with ease,  
“Must have been some kids out with firecrackers -whoever it was is long gone.” 

“Well the neighbours thought you were a prowler. Next time don’t be a hero –call it in.” She sighs and Phil lets her walk him out through the back gate towards the driveway and the sidewalk and the police car. “Seriously, Phil, you’re going to get yourself hurt again.” 

From inside Gabriella’s bramble-stricken room Clint can faintly make out Phil and the policewoman talking like they know each other. He counts the beats until the red and blue lights stop flashing and the neighbours voices join in –soon reassured and laughing at their night prowler just being another police officer –and surely they’d seen sparks in the yard but you know teenagers today. And within the half hour they are gone. 

Clint’s left alone in the room with the taste of the dawn upon him and only a little magic left to spare. But Phil said to wait and the café owner finds himself trusting, waiting until the coast is clear; the sun that much closer. Clint slips out of Gabriella’s room and through the quiet house, opening the back door just enough for a bird to fit through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love urban fantasy genre and have tried to mix in some creatures/folklore from other cultures; North America is a diverse place and people brought their legends with them (at the same time I was little wary of doing so because I didn't want to depict other cultures folk-lore inaccurately or poorly -if there's an issue please feel free to contact me). I also borrowed bits here and there from other Urban Fantasy books I've enjoyed like Dresden Files, Women of the Otherworld, the Night Watch series and so on. 
> 
> Marvel trivia also exists to a small extent -Magda is or was thought to be -at least in some cannons/timelines -the Scarlet Witch's mom, and by extension Billy Kaplan's grandma.


	7. Sorcerer Supreme

Clint makes it home just in time to collapse in the hallway, panting, gasping, aching and shedding feathers. His fingers ache as he fumbles with the keys, drops them, curses, and shouts “I changed the locks on my front door-!” 

The spell almost fizzles, the smell of clean blue skies is faint but there enough that when Barton puts his shoulder to the door the cheap lock pops and he tumbles to the floor inside. Kicking the door shut with a sharp slam behind him, Clint cowers in the hall as the sun rises and he gasps in pain. He’ll get his keys out of the hall when he can move again.

Thank the gods Phil had been there and gotten them out okay. 

Thank the gods Phil hadn’t been around to see this. 

To see Clint like this; a real monster –a real mess -crippled from the pain, his magics all stripped away like candles burnt out and his body exposed. Bad enough he’d seen Clint at the café with his wings out and his eyes all gold confronting that Wendigo. 

But he hadn’t completely freaked; he came back, so that had to be something right?  
Clint lies on the floor; cool wood against his cheek, as he waits for the pain to dull enough for him to think about making a move from his front hall. Minutes, hours –it sure feels long enough for the dawn to pass and Clint’s skin to feel right and his joints to stop hurting. He really should move. 

His phone chirps, “I hate you, phone” Clint groans, reaching for his pocket to drag the thing out. It’s Coulson; texting him to ask if he got home okay. Clint’s heart flutters as he convinces himself that his nest is way more inviting then the front hall. Opening the door just enough to fit a clawed hand out for his fallen keys, Barton thumbs a response, presses send and hoping that the officer doesn’t get into any trouble for getting caught at Gabriella’s house. 

<\---------------------------<<<<

“Coulson –my office.” Fury’s voice is a solid weight in the room and Phil can feel May’s eyes follow him –Jasper’s too as he passes the breakroom on the way to the Captain’s office. 

“Close the door.” Fury’s one-eye’d stare locks on him the moment he’s over the threshold. Phil’s pretty sure he knows what this is about and had hoped Hand would have kept quiet –but Nicholas Fury has a way of finding things out. Not much gets past Phil’s boss. 

“I’m sure you know why you’re here.” Fury gets straight to it, not even offering Phil to sit, “Hand was pretty surprised to see you out poking around an old crime scene so early in the morning,”

“Sir-,” Phil starts. 

“I get that you’ve been having trouble sleeping ---hell, Cheese, you don’t think any one of us hasn’t had our share of sleepless nights?” Nick sighs and Phil feels like a jerk for worrying Nick.   
For sneaking around and not being able to tell one of his oldest friends –who looks more worried than pissed, “I don’t give a damn if you wanna walk the streets at night; what I give a damn about is my officer sneaking around a cold case crime scene at fuck-all o’clock.”   
And now Fury levels that one pissed off eye at Phil making him feel the full weight of his authority. 

“You said you’d talk to me, Cheese.” Nick reminds, voice calm and quiet, “If there’s anything you need, you said you’d tell me.”

But tell him what? 

That he’s teamed up with a café owner who happens to be part bird to find some missing kids? That he’s been going to a café that moves every night? That monsters are real and magic is too and –and he’s cursed? 

“No, Nick. It’s nothing, I was just out for a walk.” Phil sighs, lets his shoulders slump with the exhaustion he feels from being up most of the night and the sadness of having to lie to his boss –his friend. 

Fury rubs a hand across his face; “Okay. Okay, but I’m putting you on leave for the rest of the week. I want you to get some rest, I want you away from those cold cases –and I won’t be hearing from anyone else that you’ve been sneaking around crime scenes. You see something, you call it in.” 

Phil wants to argue but Nick gives him a look that says he knows Coulson’s holding things back and he’s not happy about it so the officer decides not to press his luck. 

“Yes, sir.” Is his only response before Fury dismisses him. Phil grabs his coat, his cellphone with the photos he snapped yesterday securely in the pocket, before heading for the door. Clint will likely still be in bed sleeping off the night; Phil decides to grab a coffee and do some digging of his own. 

Clint’s phone rings and he groans –it’s not yet noon and it was a long night; “’Lo?” Clint doesn’t bother with a glamour as he pulls himself out from the sheets of his nest. 

“Good morning, Mr. Barton,” Magda’s voice is far too kind for this early in the morning –and not a coffee cup in sight. 

Clint’s awake enough without it, though. If Magda’s calling it can only be one thing.   
“You found a fix-?” He’s jumping over pleasantries and doesn’t care as he pulls himself out of bed.

“That’s why I’m calling, Mr. Barton,” Magda’s voice takes on a soft tone, a comforting one, “I studied the badge you sent –I’m sorry, but the curse on it is very very tight and the source very very old. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m sorry, Mr. Barton, but I can’t lift the curse.” 

Clint stands, the words are kind but dull in his ears. 

Magda can’t lift Coulson’s curse. 

“There’s gotta be something-,” He’s not even sure what he’s asking. Maybe the badge wasn’t enough, maybe if she tried again, maybe-? 

“I wish there was. I’ll have Billy return the badge to you this morning. I truly am sorry, Mr. Barton.” 

A knock at the door has Clint looking up towards the hallway before mumbling his goodbyes and hanging up. Billy’s waiting for him on the other side of the warn doorway. He fishes Coulson’s badge out of his blue and red jacket pocket –eyeing Clint’s wings. 

“You always answer the door without a glamour?” The young Witch asks. 

“It’s been a long day,” Clint grumbles, taking the badge. 

“It’s not even noon.” Billy argues before passing a piece of folded paper towards Clint’s clawed hands, “Magda sent a referral.” 

Clint opens the paper and eyes the address. 

Witches. 

“Tell her I said it was nice working with her.” It’s as close to a ‘thank you’ –the forbidden words –as Clint will get, shutting the door and letting Billy see himself out of the apartment as he rushes back towards his room to dig through a pile of laundry –clean? –and tossing on some jeans and a new shirt. 

Barton downs some coffee he finds cold and sitting in the carafe from the morning before, pulling a face at the tar-like taste before opening the door and almost running into Billy. 

“You still here?” The Hawk asks, bouncing from one foot to the other as he puts his shoes on. 

“You still getting dressed?” Billy snipes back as Clint moves past him down the dingy hall of his apartment building. “I’m going with you.” He calls, taking off after the Night Folk’s retreating back. 

“You’re going back to your Coven and saying ‘hey’ to your Matriarch for me,” Clint says, taking the stairs two at a time.

“I saw the address –I’m going with you.” Billy insists, tailing Barton towards the entryway with its overflowing mail slots and cracked linoleum tiles. Clint spins on his sneaker-ed heel and points a now-clawed finger at the Witch letting a little of his own magic flare up. 

“I’m on a deadline and Magda should never have given me this address in the first place.” But the boy doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not scared of Sorcerers; or whatever made that curse. Besides, you need all the help you can get.” Clint’s about to argue when Billy pushes past him and onto the street with a “your shirt’s on backwards…and inside out.” 

>>>\-------------------->

The morgue isn’t the most cheery place Phil has ever found himself but after studying the report on Tabitha in a small Starbucks he needs to talk to the cornier before he jumped to conclusions. Fury would have words if he heard Coulson was snooping around, but Dr. Woo didn’t have to know that. 

Dr. Woo’s office was just outside of the busy part of town; a large field and a long stretch of road neighbouring it was crisp and golden in the autumn daylight as Phil arrived. He’d made sure to print copies of the pictures and case files he’d taken at the office, bringing them with him in a folder. 

“Tabitha, Tabitha Lockley –yeah I remember that case. She was just a young thing.” Woo sighs, pulling out the report from a folder. “I hated seeing this one go cold; she deserved better.”

“That wound in her abdomen -,” Phil points to the picture the coroner’s pulled out. 

“It’s the strangest thing, Phil, and I’ve seen some gross stuff come through this office –traces of GSR, copper, steel, silver nitrate, lead; nothing that should have turned her guts to soup. We figured there was animal interference to get it that bad –we found hair around the body. She was out there for a few days before she was found.” Woo sighs –not noticing the deep shiver that runs up Phil’s spine making his arm shake and his chest hurt. 

The curse was acting up and Coulson was suddenly freezing. 

“Anything around the neck?” Phil asks trying to keep his teeth from chattering. 

“Nope,” The doctor says, “That was post-mortem at least. The shot to the gut came first –before that the Ketamine; enough to nock her right out and then some.” Then, “I hope you catch the sick bastard who did this.” 

Phil nods, thanks Dr. Woo for his time and leaves the office. The sun outside does little to chase his chill away. The animal fur and the silver nitrate. Coulson was new to this world of Night Folk and surely there were any number of creatures that detested silver but his time watching scary movies as a child made him wonder. 

It was noon by the time Phil left Dr. Woo’s office and he was still cold. Coulson tugs his jacket around himself a little tighter, rubbing his hands together in the autumn air and letting his feet carry him down the street back towards his car. But a deep stab of cold made him haul up short, leaning against the side of the vehicle and trying to breathe. The big blond dog didn’t seem to want to wait for him to catch his breath. 

Phil saw it standing across the parking lot; eyes bright and boring into Phil. Far too knowing for an animal –and surely at first Coulson thought it was some kind of dog, a mixed breed with blond fur and blue eyes. But the cold in Phil’s chest screamed and he gasped, a hand gripping his ribs, breath coming out as a slight mist to hang in the air like on a chilly day. 

Follow the cold. 

“Hey-,” He shivers rounding the car – but doesn’t know how to finish what’s on his tongue. The animal doesn’t give him a chance to figure it out; it tenses, the hair on its flanks rising before turning tail. And Phil follows. 

He’s not as fast as a wolf, Phil’s not fooling himself, but he’s got the animal in his sights as it lopes through the tall grassy field and towards the scrub and shallow woods beyond leading out of the city. 

The fence isn’t huge, coming up to Phil’s chest with its rusty finger-thick wires and a few wooden posts at the edge of the scrub. Coulson watches the wolf wriggle under it, belly to the dirt. There’s a faded sign or two posted along the wire; CAUTION; PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT!! VIOLATORS WILL BE PERSICUTED. HUNTING FORBIDEN! 

Phil stops at the fence, fingers gripping the wire as he leans over it to watch as the wolf scampers a ways before turning back to eye the police officer. It turns tail and carries on into the shadowy protection of the tree cover. 

He’s cold. So cold even though he’s run through the field and his heart’s beating like a wild thing in his chest. The wolf is gone and Phil’s weighing his options. A Wendigo had tried to eat him not two nights ago and now he’s chasing wild animals on the outskirts of town in hopes of solving a cold case. Who knows what’s on the other side of this fence? 

Come –whispers the cold in his chest and Phil takes out his phone to thumb a text to Clint, tucking the file of Tabitha’s pictures into his jacket before planting his hands on the old wire and hoisting himself over and onto the other side. 

>>>>\----------------------->

The Sorcerer’s place looks normal on the outside but Barton knows better. Sorcerers aren’t like the Witches with their Covens and their laws. While they both draw power from the same place, the Covens see all life as sacred and live under a strict tenant of ‘do no harm’ –and the Sorcerers’ really just limited themselves to ‘tho shalt not kill’. Big difference if you’re in a fight. 

The only Sorcerers Clint’s ever heard of were proud bastards, vain enough to think they were stronger on their own and above the Covens’ restrictions. The Treaty offers them –and the Withes for that matter –the luxury of casting higher level spells provided it’s in service of mankind yada yada yada. Clint bitterly supposes that it’s because they’re still human. Unlike the Witches, however, Sorcerers didn’t have as many rules but a small governing body of Sorcerers Supreme sat in judgment of any one of their kind who went too far off the rails.

Clint wasn’t sure how far ‘off the rails’ was for a Sorcerer (it’s not like he keeps up with everyone magically inclined that walks into his café) and he’s sure he doesn’t want to know. What Clint does know is he sure doesn’t want Wanda to wind up like those grizzled old men sitting alone in their dusty sanctums with their politics and their lust for knowledge. 

“I’ve never seen a Sorcerer before.” Billy admits, scuffing his shoes against the pavement. 

“And you won’t today.” Clint had realized he wasn’t chasing the little Witch off but he wasn’t going to let him tag along the whole way to his appointment with this ‘Dr. Strange’ either.   
“You’re going home.” 

“And pass up the chance to see different kinds of magic?” Billy cocks an eyebrow. 

“There’s nothing to see,” Clint grumbles, “Regular mortal humans with saviour complexes thinking they’re the sole defenders of everything –hell they even draw their power from the same source as you –these guys just have their wands up their asses.” Some of them even turn Hunter themselves –not a popular move but a truth nonetheless. 

“Humans,” He remembers a troll spitting chewing tobacco into the cobbles outside the café one night and saying, “They get a touch of magic and, mark me; they’ll ram it right up yer ass.”

The doorknocker is big and brass and heavy as Clint lifts it to announce their presence. The address scribbled in Magda’s neat handwriting stares up at him as the Hawk turns to look at the young Witch standing on the stoop a step behind him. 

“You wait here.” Clint insists, “Sorcerers and Witches don’t mix.” And Magda would probably keep him stuck as a hawk for the rest of his unnaturally long life if Billy so much as stubbed a toe. The little Witch looks like he’s about to snipe back when the heavy front door clicks open, swinging inward and Clint found himself in the dimly front hall before recalling ever taking a step. Billy too, as the big door thuds shut behind them with an echo across the stone floor. 

“Awww, Sorcerers.” Mumbles Clint pinching the bridge of his nose. But odd that the house had just invited him in; Clint had expected wards and magical locks meant to keep out monsters like him not a sudden inanimate welcome. 

The little brownstone opens wide on the inside with staircases and cavernous hallways; vaulted ceilings and mirrors reflecting impossible landscapes. 

“Hello?” Billy calls, voice bouncing back at him as the two take their first few steps into the sanctum. Clint can practically smell magic from every surface here; different kinds from different places, all collected within the brownstone. So much magic under one roof it’s a wonder the place hasn’t gone up like a tinder box. With all that magic in the air it shouldn’t have been a surprise that someone got a jump on him. 

A broad, serious-looking man appears from the depths of the house; books in hand.

“Intruders-!” His eyes widen when they set on Clint and Billy, his books forgotten; the door might have been welcoming but the dwellers inside seem skeptical. “I knew you would return to steal from us again, Night thing!” 

“Wait, we have an invitation-,” But the spellwork is fast illuminating the darkened home –the Three Binding Rings of Raggador rise in shining gold circling Clint tight like manacles; he feels it tamp his magic down and all the songs he knows seem to dim in his mind.

Futz. 

Billy’s weaving a spell of his own, blue light glowing from his hands –cold and powerful, 

“Iwantyoutolethimgoiwantyoutolethimgo,” his voice is a hushed chant and the power Clint feels growing is startling for one so young. The Sorcerer before them must feel it too, but he’s got years on Billy –years to hone his magic and fewer rules to live by. A nullifying spell zings out and ties the boy’s tongue up; Billy’s chant dies out abruptly. 

Clint’s not liking where this is going. Magda was gonna be pissed. 

“What’s going on here, Wong?” A voice echoes down from the main staircase. The man it’s attached to is neat; facial hair trimmed with a hint of grey around the edges, red cloak billowing though his hands gnarled and scared and trembling. He moves like a Sorcerer though, graceful and smooth, confident –perhaps overly so for a human. 

“Your door let us in!” Billy shouts; Clint can see that he’s still reaching for his own magic, the sparks of blue light flicker and die around his hands in fits. 

“They are intruders, Strange, come to steal from us again!” Wong argues, eyes digging into Clint,   
“And one a Night Thing –A Sidhe! We will never bargain with any Fae!” 

“Would really appreciate it if we could talk this over-,” Clint grumbles, pushing his own magic against Raggador’s Binding Rings, “with fewer spells. I’m not here to bargain or steal or whatever. I’m a free agent not bound to any Queen; Summer or Winter. Magda gave me your number.” 

“It seeks to ensnare us, Strange! First it’s a little favour and then another until we’re slaves and then the sanctum is his-,”

But the Coven Matriarch’s name gets the red-cloaked man’s attention.

“Magda.” At the word the slip of paper flutters like a moth on pulpy wings from Barton’s pocket. 

The Sorcerer catches it from the air in his scared and shaking hands. “Must be serious for the Coven to start advertising for Sorcerers. Are you sure you’re not here to break in?” His sharp eyes still on Magda’s card. 

“Pretty sure,” Clint’s growing impatient, “I need a curse removed. Magda couldn’t do it,” That earns a whistle from Strange and a grumble from Billy. Strange nods and the Binding Rings fall away. Wong and the little Witch drop their defenses, though both stand at the ready.

“And she thinks I can help?” It’s really less of a question. Clint wouldn’t be here if Magda hadn’t thought the Sorcerer had nothing to offer. “I’m not exactly in the business of doing favours for the Sidhe or the Witches who bring them into my house.” 

“Your magic house thought we were good enough to let in.” Billy scoffed, eyeing Wong’s stance and widening his own to match.

“Then do it for the human the curse is attached to.” Clint tosses Coulson’s badge to Strange. The man eyes the metal, brow furrowing deeply before letting the trinket float up and turn in the air so he can get a better look. 

“Horay Hoasts, this is old work.” Strange mutters, “And deadly.” Then, “Why do you want it off?”   
Clint throws his hands up into the air, “Because I’m not an asshole? He’s a good guy who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He doesn’t deserve to freeze to death.”  
“And what’s the catch?” The Sorcerer’s eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“There’s always a catch with the Fae.” Wong grumbles bitterly, “Say the word and he’s out of here, Strange, we’ve had enough unwanted guests.” 

“This guy couldn’t even get himself dressed this morning-,” Billy snorts at the thought of Clint being any real threat. 

Dr. Strange turns his piercing eyes to the boy, “He is a Sidhe –a kind of Fae,” 

“Only partly one,” Clint mumbles and is ignored. 

“The Wolves will hunt you, the Vampires enthrall you, but a Sidhe will trap you in a game you can’t win and watch you squirm deeper and deeper into their debt. I try my hand at this curse and who knows what he’ll do.” The house seems to shudder at Strange’s words, the dimness growing darker and more ominous as the walls lean in around them. 

“But Clint will owe you a favour.” Billy reminds. 

“And he’ll give me exactly what I ask for in the most literal and unnatural ways.” Strange assures. “Even a simple ‘thank you’ is enough for him to catch you. This sanctum was broken into not a month ago –how do we know you’re not the culprits?” 

“Look –if it makes you feel better I’m offering the same thing I offered the Witches.” And Clint lets his glamour slip and tugs a feather from his hair, offering it up to Strange. “One feather and my word that it wasn’t me who broke into your place. No catch.” 

“No catch?” Strange echoes doubtful, “A life for a feather?” 

“No catch, no trick, no harm will come to you or your friends or anybody else. We’re square –I’ll leave and you won’t have to see me again –can you just bust this curse?” Clint’s losing his patience. 

“The Good Neighbours can’t lie.” Wong nods knowingly and Barton decides to leave out that a mutt like him can –probably not going to help move things along any faster. 

Strange eyes the feather and then Coulson’s badge still levitating just within his reach.   
He takes the feather and the room abruptly shifts. No longer are they standing in a dim hallway but in a large drawing room; polished wood floors gleam beneath tall skylights flooding the room with pools of sun. A few chairs and stacks of books dot the room here and there but besides that it’s bare. Both Billy and Clint stager at the sudden shift.

“Likely safer to do it in here.” The Sorcerers agree. “With this kind of curse things could get messy.” 

“So someone broke into your sanctum?” Billy asks eyeing the wooden walls that glimmer with a protective sheen. The room itself is empty of furniture or anything else for that matter. Carved into the wood beneath their feet is a sealing spell to hold whatever goes on here inside these walls. 

“Broke in and left empty handed.” Wong says proudly. “No one steals from our sanctum!” 

“Some thief.” Clint mutters. 

“What were they after?” Billy wonders as Strange sets Phil Coulson’s badge in the center of the spell on the floor. 

“Not sure, but they went for the vault –so it wasn’t just some magic knickknacks they were after.” Strange assures, “Their magic was pretty old too –much like this curse of yours. If I’m being honest I don’t think we had what they were looking for.” 

Odd –sanctum’s are a practical treasure trove of magical items Sorcerers collect over the years –locked up tight in this very house are books and artifacts of power. What would one look for that they couldn’t find in a Sorcerer’s collection? 

No petty thief –Clint supposes. 

Strange and Wong weave up signs glowing bright like embers in the air. Billy eyes their spellwork curiously; watching their hands with wonder as they draw bright coals through the wide room. But soon he’s tugging at his jacket as a cold chill goes through the air. The Sorcerers’ magic brushes up against the curse and a wave of winter breaths out into the Sanctum. 

“This is a very old spell,” Strange gasps, “and not designed to come off.” He’s weaving a quick sign to defend against the spreading chill but it creeps across the floorboards, chases its way to the windows and sets the air to frost. 

Clint’s fingers and face start to burn with the cold.

“By the Hosts-!” Wong exclaims, sweat beading on his brow, his hands weaving signs as he and Strange work to undo the curse piece by piece. Icicles like spikes spear suddenly outward from the badge and both men leap back to avoid being impaled. “Strange, if we keep this up it’s liable to freeze the whole Sanctum!” 

“Just a little longer –I think,” Dr. Strange’s brow knits together in concern and concentration as he pushing himself past layer after layer of the spell. The bright embers about him weave into new signs and snow kicks up in the air. Clint’s called up his own magic in a whistle, keeping a clawed hand on Billy and heating the space around them, the ice and frost turning wet at their feet.

But Strange is far worse for the ware; the cold curse lashes out turning the Sorcerer icy blue, his fingers and face pale and stiff. From his neatly trimmed mustache little flakes of frost are clinging –those already shivering fingers are barely holding their spells together now. 

Icicles lean from the ceiling, and snowy crystals start to pile in drifts around the edges of the room. But the Sorcerer doesn’t cease his efforts. The house around them shudders and its own magical defenses start to rise blocking off the room under attack from the rest of the house and the world beyond. 

“Strange, stop –you’ll kill yourself!” Wong bellows over the frozen wind that’s kicked up –he’s turned his efforts to protecting the house and its occupants. Clint sees it coming first, the sharp spear of ice aimed at the man’s chest, and leaps tearing Strange away before he can be killed.   
Phil Coulson’s badge is encased; spikes of clear, clean ice strike outwards from it and everything in the room is still as a winter’s morning and biting cold. 

“IwantittobewarmIwantittobewarmIwantit” Billy’s voice is shivering as he calls up a spell of his own and slowly the room thaws, like an early spring had come to the Sanctum. Strange sits up, chafes his scarred hands together and stairs at the badge still thawing out. 

“Whoever cast that curse was old and powerful –they didn’t want it coming off. There’s layers upon layers worked into this thing and anyone who tries to undo it will die.” The Sorcerer shivers, “The only one who can get rid of the curse safely is the one who cast it.” 

“Do you know who cast it?” Clint asks hopefully. 

“Not by name, but they’ve left a pretty good clue; they like cold and ice,” Strange waves a hand at the melting icicles, “And they’re an asshole.” 

“That’s casting a pretty wide net -,” Billy grumbles, feet stamping through the melting slush on the floor as his heat spell works. 

Clint’s phone chirps and the Hawk looks at the incoming text with a swear. 

“This has been great,” He tries not to slip on the wet floorboards as he grabs Coulson’s badge, “Should do it again sometime –hate to leave you with a mess but ---I gotta go,” And he’s shifting; feathers for skin, talons for nails –organs sloshing fast and wings beating him into the air. 

Wong spells up a window and opens it with a grumbled “This is why we don’t work with the Sidhe.” The Hawk flies out into the late afternoon sky above the Sanctum and away leaving Billy and the Sorcerers –and the slushy mess –behind. 

Phil had followed a Wolf onto Pack land.


	8. Run Wolf Warrior Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm out of town this weekend when I'm usually updating and that's why this chapter was early. 
> 
> You guys are catching up to me a bit faster than I thought but life got busy here. I'm gonna keep aiming for weekly updates but we'll see how it goes.

The forest is dense beyond the fence and Phil tries to be soundless as he follows the wolf. It’s cool under the leaves as the sun sinks and Phil’s chest tightens, shivers, colder than the remaining day should allow. The woman on Clint’s phone had told him to follow it –to trust in that cold –and here he is. Ducking fences to follow an animal. 

He can sense he’s not alone here; that the wolf he followed isn’t gone, despite Phil having just lost it from sight. The clearing up ahead allows some sun to peer through the yellowing autumn leaves casing gold onto everything and Phil finds the woods have gone silent. 

No birds. 

No squirrels rustling through the leaf litter. 

No distant sound of traffic. 

Still. 

The woods are waiting and he isn’t alone. 

This was likely a mistake -, 

The cold reaches up and grabs Phil by the chest as a man with tousled gold hair and a chiselled jaw touched with stubble steps out of the foliage. Phil feels more than hears another man at his back –tall and built like a brick wall –a woman to his side slender and blond. All three strong, all three naked. All of them displeased.   
Phil’s shivering so hard he can’t seem to catch his breath; his little huffs coming out in steam to hang in the air as his arm trembles and clenches by his side. Something in him thinks of Clint and his warm hands and his heat spells and the drinks he serves at the café that chase the chill away. 

He wishes Clint were here. 

He shouldn’t. 

But he does. 

“You lost, stranger?” The blond man speaks up, eyeing Phil with eyes that are as blue as the sky and flecked with gold. In those eyes is not a man but a wolf –big and blond with teeth and claws. The cold makes him see it as clearly as if the stranger had been in his fur the whole time. 

But he’s not –he’s a man. 

Isn’t he? 

Phil fumbles for his badge in his coat, breath ghosting in the air, “Police -,” He manages to get out, the cold is starting to subside leaving him tired and worn and wishing rather for his bed. He tries to straighten up; ever the professional in the field. The blond man with eyes like a wolf has time to look surprised –genuinely –and concerned. 

“I’m investigating the…disappearance and death of Tabitha Lockley -,” Coulson’s words start to drift as the cold leaves him chilled and the world around him greying into darkness. 

>>\---------------------------->>

Clint’s never flown so fast in his life. His wings burn as he pushes himself further, faster through the late autumn afternoon. How many Packs are there in the city? Registered; maybe two –a few unofficial splinter groups of two or three wolves calling themselves Pack –but only one that boasts the kind of land Phil’s text had suggested. Only one that has a fence to hop.   
The Treaty says anyone killed on Pack land is dead. Like dead dead. So dead the cops and the Hunters and the Feds can’t do a damn thing. So dead you’re lucky to get a body back.   
Usually, if an Alpha’s nice, he’ll turn in some ID –a wallet, a shoe, some teeth in a bag –let the family have some closure. If they’re not…you’re gone. Most Night Folk have the brains not to set a foot on Pack land without an invitation. And you sure don’t hop a fence –damnit, Coulson! 

Wolves rub Clint the wrong way at the best of times; too much Pack politics, too much posturing ---too much like the Sidhe cliques who wouldn’t have him. Except the wolves were worse because   
they went around touting ‘family’ and ‘togetherness’ and all that sentimental shit that Clint hadn’t ever seen. 

At least the Sidhe were honest when they turfed you out on your ear. 

The wind in Clint’s wings is cold and it feels like he can’t fly fast enough as he whirls towards the outskirts of town. Below him the coroner’s office and the wide field of yellowing grasses bleaching   
themselves in the sinking sun. Clint’s seen them before maybe once or twice in his café; the Alpha’s Steve Rogers and he boasts a healthy Pack with a wide swath of land. A land witch stretches out beneath Clint now in acreage filled with trees and clearings; a stream cuts through the property on the way to a handsome farmhouse big enough to house more than a family. 

Clint turns his beak towards it. 

Please don’t be a bag of teeth, Phil –he prays. 

\-------------------------------------- 

Steve Rogers stands in the warm, wide polished main hall with Dugan and Sam, their voices hushed, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. As a bedroom door upstairs shuts quietly they look up to see Sharon come down the stairs of the farmhouse. 

“How’s he doing?” Steve asks. Now dressed the Wolves of Roger’s pack look much more human, though no less haggard. Bucky Barnes had been taken many months ago and Steve’s beyond sick   
with it –all of them are. A pack is a family –more than. And now a freezing cold human’s blundered onto their land asking about a dead Wolf. It’s ill timed. 

“Cold still,” Sharon shrugs, “He’s asleep now. I don’t know what’s wrong but it’s taken a lot out of him.” 

“He some kind of Sorcerer? A Witch?” Dugan wonders, hairy arms folded across his broad chest, eyes darting between his Alpha and Sharon. 

“He’s just a regular human cop –ID has him as Officer Phil Coulson. He stinks of old magic, though. Could be what’s making him sick.” Sharon guesses, “How long are we going to keep him?” the she-wolf asks Steve seriously; her blond hair tucked over her shoulder. Regular human cops don’t believe in Werewolves or Night Folk; Pack land is no place for Officer Coulson no matter how closely he’d brushed up against their world.

“Until he can get his feet under him,” Steve sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. A part of him wants the officer gone now. Put him back in the parking lot where he’d found him, let him think this –his Pack, and Werewolves and Night Folk –was all just a dream. It would be best for the Pack; his people, his family. 

Bucky.

But he’s more than curious too and nighttime is coming, “Lockley wasn’t part of our Pack but she was a Wolf. And a possible lead to whoever took Bucky.” 

“We’re gonna find him, Steve -,” Sam starts to assure, a hand reassuringly brushing on the Alpha’s shoulder warm and welcome. He’s cut off when the door bursts open, splintering with the smell of a clear sky and fresh straw –sweet and clear and furious. The Hawk that crosses the farmhouse threshold has talons for hands and the face of a predator; frightening and unnatural in its beauty. The figure before them has his rust-coloured wings spread wide, a bow in his hands, his eyes glow gold with a fury and a worry that Steve recognizes. 

Sharon and Dugan don’t wait; they know a threat when they see one and they rush their uninvited guest to protect their Alpha –their family –claws sprouting and fangs sharpened. 

“The dog days are over; the dog days are done-!’ Clint bellows throwing the two wolves away with a gale force wind that screams like a spooked mare, “the horses are coming so you better run!”   
Picture frames rattle and fall to smash on the floor, the walls shudder –lights flicker and pop leaving Clint backlit by the new evening. Sam’s going furry, fangs growing and pushing through gums as he shoves himself towards Clint Barton through the spell as best he can. 

“Can’t you hear the horses-?” And the gale Barton’s summoned takes the shape of hooves and tossed manes. Wild eyed winds throw Sam back, but Steve’s there to support him; the two bent against the assault. More Wolves are coming as Clint marches towards the Alpha he recognizes from his visits to the café. 

“Where is he?” Clint shouts over the wind. 

And Steve knew he recognized that look; the one of fierce anxiety that still mars their intruder’s face. It’s the same one he knows he wears when he’s looking for Bucky. This needs to end fast; Steve can sense his packmates rushing towards the fight and he can’t let this end in more violence. It cuts Steve deep to even think of surrender; this intruder came to HIS home, HIS land, attacked HIS family-! The Alpha in him screams to disembowel the Sidhe-Shifter and hang his corpse at their fence as a warning. But the man in Steve understands; when he finds Bucky he will be the same. 

The first Wolf through the hallway into the main entrance is shot through the shoulder with an arrow –the shriek of pain from Gabe shakes Steve to his core as his family is pinned to the wall. A second arrow hits Dugan who’s recovered enough to make another attempt at Clint; this one straight through the knee so the Wolf screams and drops to the floorboards. A third arrow is knocked but when it aims at Steve’s chest Clint finds the Alpha standing with his hands up in surrender. A sad, worn look meets Clint’s blazing gold-flecked eyes.

The wind whines and bucks through the building but Steve stands, hands up and calling, “He’s here. The Officer’s upstairs –he’s not hurt, just cold.” 

Clint can barely hear him over the roar of the gale; his eyes wide at Steve’s surrender and darting quickly between the Alpha, Gabe and Dugan still fighting their injuries. 

“We never intended to hurt your human,” Steve’s voice holds the full authority of an Alpha and the knowing pain of a man who’s worried sick wishing someone would reassure him with good news, “He’s safe here.” 

Clint’s arrow is trained on Steve’s chest, wire taunt, muscles bunched and waiting –as Steve is waiting; hair tossed in the wind, eyes open and honest. He waits for Clint to decide. 

Slowly the air calms and dips towards a light breeze, the archer still training his shot on the Alpha, “I wanna see him.” 

Clint’s steps into the room quietly. The sun’s long past and soon it would have been time for the café to open but Barton’s not going anywhere. The officer’s asleep on the bed covered in thick blankets and furs and he still looks so cold. Nat’s words whisper back to him that Coulson will keep getting colder and colder until he freezes. Without a sound the Hawk takes the human’s icy hand in his clawed one and just holds it. 

“You scared me so much.” He whispers into the dim room. He doesn’t want to think about how lucky they got today; how easily this human could have been lost. And how powerless he would have been. 

For a while Clint crouches silently by the bed holding Coulson’s hand. 

He’s still so cold.

“Here comes the sun,” Barton sings softly, “here comes the sun, and I say,” But tapers off as the heat spell that had worked before just isn’t cutting it. A lump catches in Clint’s throat as terror, cold as Phil’s chest, forms in him. In his mind he can see Phil’s badge encased in ice. Clint tries to breathe and think and come up with a spell a little stronger. 

He’s not going to let Coulson go like that. 

“Hot blooded, check it and see. I’ve got a fever of a hundred and three-,” He manages to hum out and the spell kicks in. Phil’s fingers warm and his cheeks start to pink. “Hot blooded, you’re a little bit shy, Hot blooded you’re making me sing,” Clint finishes the rest of the song as Phil finally starts to warm up. He stretches the spell out over the rest of the room, feeling it warm to a bright summer’s day. 

Relief washes over Clint as Phil stops shivering, his body unclenching and truly relaxing into the blankets and furs of the bed. Coulson is resting peacefully. Barton’s free hand comes to brush soothingly through the officer’s hair. It’s quiet here in the farmhouse spare room; far more than Clint would have thought for a pack house full of stinky Wolves ---he’s going to have to make it up to them for shooting two of them and breaking their door down. 

And for them not eating Phil, that’s a big one. 

A door can be replaced, but this human officer brave enough to chase after a Wolf…he’s one of a kind, Clint’s sure. 

Hours pass as Clint keeps watch over the sleeping man; his clawed hands rub soothing circles against Coulson’s human one until the man starts to stir. Barton has just a second to pull a glamour over himself as Phil’s eyes flutter and he starts to come too. 

“Barton-?” The Officer’s voice is groggy, eyes squinting adjusting to the dim. Phil Coulson realizes the warm hand he’s holding is Clint’s and he’s caught between touched and unsure –the woman’s voice on the other end of the phone still casting doubt. 

Here he is falling far too quickly for a man who’s not nearly as invested as Phil…

“S’me –I’m here.” Clint says softly making the officer’s chest flutter before he remembers that Clint’s not his to flutter over. Phil lets his eyes dart around the room as he takes his hand away, trying to sit up and take in his new surroundings and the closest exits, “it’s cool –we’re cool; you passed out on Pack land and -,” 

“What?” Phil sees that he’s down to his white undershirt and pants beneath the furs. Someone’s folded his clothes neatly on a chair by the door. The room is warm –hot even –and all he can remember was the cold and the fence and the woods beyond. 

“You hopped a fence onto Pack land, Coulson. Werewolves.” Clint’s voice is starting to leak out some of that stress he’s been carrying up until now, “Futz –man, they could have killed you!” 

“So there are Werewolves.” Phil confirms and Clint just buries his face in his hands. 

“Oh yeah, there’s Werewolves –all kinds of them.” He groans, “You and I are futzin’ lucky it was Steve Rogers’ pack and not someone else’s because they would definitely have killed you and there’s not a damn thing anybody could’ve done about it.” 

“I went to the morgue to ask about Tabitha Lockley –she was a Werewolf, I’m sure.” Clint can see the gears turning in Phil’s head as he’s working things out. The door opening makes both human and Night Folk look up. A stream of light from the hall pools into the room from the hallway and Sharon stands in the doorway. 

“The Alpha wants to see you both downstairs.” She says in a way that makes Clint think she doesn’t normally talk about Rogers with such a formal air. Sharon sniffs, “Why is it a sauna in here?” 

“Just a little heat spell,” Clint shrugs, getting up and giving Phil a chance to get his dress shirt buttoned up, “not all of us have fur coats.” 

Phil’s careful to eye the blond woman as he gathers his coat with the files still tucked in and sidearm before joining the two Night Folk on the stairs. Their hosts are Werewolves. Real ones. Like   
Tabatha Lockley. Did they turn only on the full moon like in the movies he’d seen as a kid? Did they all look like wolves when they turned or did they just have huge claws and sideburns? How much of his knowledge was fiction? 

On their way past the front hall Phil glimpses the damage Clint did coming in; eyebrows lift at the mess. A few of the Wolves working on the door blown off its hinges stop and cast glares towards the Hawk. Arrows still stuck out of the wall and broken glass was being swept up. Clint has the decency to feel a little bit bad about it but not much. 

Steve Rogers sits in a large living room full of plush couches and chairs arraigned before a roaring fireplace. He’s broad in the shoulders and young in the face but his eyes are old; older than Phil could imagine a man being. And desperately handsome. Clint had said there were all kinds of Werewolves; Coulson wonders what kind Steve Rogers is. 

“How are you feeling?” Phil’s surprised the question is directed at him. 

“Much better, actually. I guess I need to thank you for not tearing me apart back there in the woods –that was big of you.” Phil can’t help the slight sass that works its way out. He really is grateful, truly. 

Clint doesn’t stop the bark of laughter that chokes its way from his chest –the balls on this human. Sharon arches a brow and looks ready with something biting but Rogers face breaks into a smirk. 

“It’s not every day we get an officer of the law in our woods,” the Alpha leans forward, the firelight casting gold onto his face, “especially one asking about a dead Wolf.” Steve’s eyes flick towards Clint, “And then a Sidhe breaks down our front door -, gotta say, Officer Coulson, that’s a pretty full day for us.” 

“For me too. Before this week I thought Werewolves were fiction --but then Tabitha Lockley’s body was found headless, pumped full of Ketamine and lying in a ditch.” Phil pulls out the files and thumbs through the case pictures for Steve to see, “None of that should have led to her guts being liquefied –but the traces of silver nitrate are making me think she was one of yours –assuming the whole silver thing is real.” 

Steve eyes the pictures and sighs chest tight, “She was a Wolf, but not one of my Pack. We had contact with her when she came through town -, it’s routine to let a local Pack know you’re passing through. Why is a human police officer looking into this?” 

“Tired of staring at cold cases all day.” Phil shrugs and Steve’s brows arch up to his hairline.

“Yeah, you never get used to that.” Clint grins from his spot on the couch. The feathers in his hair fluff up a little with something that might be pride as the Alpha gets his first glimpse at what makes Officer Phil Coulson so special. 

Coulson ignores them both and carries on, “You’ll have to forgive me….,” 

“Steve.” The Alpha supplies. 

“Steve, then. I’m afraid my knowledge on Werewolves is pretty limited.” The Officer carries on gesturing to the pictures of Tabitha’s body, “Is there anything here that might help us figure out who killed Tabitha –anything I’m missing? Anyone who might have wanted to kill her?” 

Steve’s face saddens and shakes his head. “She was a Wolf without a pack –which is a pretty dangerous thing to be. It made her a target; but if she’d fought with other Night Folk they wouldn’t have left her like this,” he waves a hand at the photos, “the ketamine to keep her under, the silver nitrate to kill her. Taking her head was probably a trophy thing –I can’t tell if she was in her fur when she died but either way whoever did this knew what she was; they were prepared and they were human.” 

“’In her fur’?” Coulson repeats.

“Sometimes when a Wolf dies on four legs they shift back. Depends on the Wolf though.” Clint explains eyeing the pictures. 

“Tabitha was a born Wolf –like us. Not some human cursed to change on the full moon like the Loup Garou, or a human who uses a wolf pelt to turn into something that looks like a wolf –a Hexenwolf. Not a Skinwalker either.” Steve cuts off the next question before it can come. “As Wolves we can change whenever we like and have greater protections under the Treaty to hold land and hunting rights.” 

“You can hunt on your land with impunity.” Phil is starting to understand Clint’s worry for him hopping the fence. “Including humans? Or other Wolves?” 

The room goes a little tense. 

"We didn't kill Tabitha -and if we had why let a human officer investigating her death live-?" Sharon looks more than a little offended but Steve cuts her off. 

“Contrary to popular belief, Officer Coulson,” Steve’s eyes are serious and show their years, “Wolves don’t kill for sport –humans do. All Packs have a strict policy about Wolves that go too human and get a taste for sport-hunting. We’ve never needed a Treaty to police us.” 

Phil has to chew this over a moment wondering what kind of policy Rogers had meant and deciding it likely wasn’t very nice. 

“So do humans sport-hunt Wolves?” Coulson wonders. 

There’s a long pause. “They have in the past.” Sharon acknowledges tucking some of her long blond hair over her shoulder, “For our pelts, for our teeth –local remedies, stuff like that. It got worse in the Dark Times before the Treaty.” 

“Wolf pelts are very restricted now and anyone using one has to have a licence; we would have dealt with Tabitha ourselves if she’d been cursed. The Hunters would have dealt with her if she was using a pelt.” Steve goes on. 

“They should have dealt with it even though she wasn’t –they should be investigating! It’s their job!” Sharron snarls unable to hold her anger in and Steve leans into her side pushing warmth and calm and Alpha assurance, “Next thing you know they’ll be taking shots at us themselves. The Hunters won’t even look into Bucky-,” 

“Bucky?” Phil looks up questioningly to see Steve’s face crumple for a moment. A whine pushes from both Wolves quietly. 

“My…mine,” Steve tries to explain, “Bucky’s mine. One of ours –he went missing months ago and we’ve done what we can but we’re almost out of leads. To be honest, Officer Coulson, we would have left you back out by your car when you collapsed out in our woods but we were hoping you’d have something on Bucky. Anything.”

“Tabitha’s not the first cold case we’ve been chasing. You know folks have been going missing -,” Clint says but Phil’s eyeing the pictures; the blistered brand on Tabitha’s thigh. The crowfeet around his eyes tug as he peers down at the angry red circle with a skull in the middle ringed by tentacles like some kind of dead-eyed octopus. 

“Here-,” He’s turning the photo, “Right here, I’ve seen this brand before. The Hunter that roughed us up at the café, he had one just like it.”   
All eyes in the room turn towards the photo. 

“All of them?” Clint asks. 

“Not sure. The one who cast that spell on me when I said I’d seen you kill the Wendigo,” Phil said, “He had his wand right to my head –I only saw part of the tattoo but it was definitely this.”

Clint’s got his phone out snapping a picture to send to Natasha.

“We have another lead –one more cold case that came across my desk –, and we couldn’t get anything from the Amalia’s house-,” Phil says.

“I’m going with you.” The Alpha asserts, standing up from the couch, eyes on the photo of Tabatha’s body, “Whatever you need you’ll have from my Pack.” 

“We’re not exactly recruiting.” Clint says, feathers ruffling a little. Packs came with their own politics –just like the Sidhe –and he’s kind of sure he shot any healthy relationship to shit when he broke down their doorway. 

“And I’m not exactly asking,” Steve’s got an eyebrow quirked, glancing at Clint with the full authority of an Alpha, “You came in here, to our home, and shot two of my family; now I’m not asking for an apology and I know better than to wait for a ‘thank you’ –but you and I both know you’re not in a position to turn down a request.”

Clint looks about to say something about making requests with the Sidhe being dangerous to one’s health when Phil interjects. 

“We’re not, actually.” And shoots Clint a look, “We don’t know who we’re after or how high it goes; Clint and I can’t be turning down potential allies.” And really Phil’s right. It’s just Clint who has his feathers out of place. 

“A car ride home would be great.” Clint grumbles conceding to the Alpha with a sigh. 

They don’t actually get the car ride. Steve insists on spending the rest of the night talking through everything they know –the trip to the Amalia’s, the Hunters who roughed up Clint and Phil at the café and about how involved Phil’s precinct was before the cases went cold.   
Sharon and the rest of Pack filtered in and out of the living room offering food and hot drinks –eyeing Clint with a few glares (especially Dugan and Gabe who were still sporting bandages from earlier). Barton wanted to tell them to suck it up; Wolves heal fast enough. But Clint can tell when the heat spell he cast is starting to ebb off and he knows that dawn is coming. He’s either getting that ride home or he’s spending it here surrounded by furballs. 

Phil’s yawn breaks the conversation and he apologizes but Steve shakes his head, “It’s late. We should have given you that ride home ages ago.” 

“My car is still back at the morgue.” Phil reminds and Steve eyes Clint before standing and saying like it’s all settled. 

“We’ll take you home and bring the car around tomorrow when we check out that lead.” 

Clint really wants to protest but it’s been a day and a night and he’s used up a lot of magic –he couldn’t get them back to Phil’s car and home before the coming dawn any faster –and in a way he does owe Rogers’s Pack for taking care of Phil like they did. He’s swallowed his pride for far less but somehow this still ruffles Clint’s feathers.   
Sam is the one driving them back towards Clint’s place on Steve’s request. The Wolf’s still eyeing Clint like he’s a threat, but his Alpha had asked so here he is. The small black car is old and smells like dog, but it’s got four wheels and gas in the tank –and no magic about it. Just a regular car that the Pack uses to head into town. 

“Should have you home in no time.” Sam says, eyeing the address –he doesn’t ask why Clint’s not giving him directions to a park or a river or someplace more….natural. Apartment buildings aren’t exactly prime Sidhe real estate. Clint hopes he keeps on not asking; Wolves value family and pack and togetherness and Sam would probably give him sad puppy eyes if he found out no Sidhe would have a mutt like him muddying up their knowe. He doesn’t want the Wolf’s pity. 

The sun’s close and Clint’s grip on the arm rest goes tight. They going to make it but it will be close. Coulson’s sitting upright but he’s tugged his coat closer to himself as though to chase an invisible cold away –the heat spell worn well away. There’s nothing for it now; Clint’s not got the magic to hold his glamour, heat Phil and get his own front door unlocked and all before the fresh dawn. 

Coulson seems to notice Clint’s eyes glued to the East as they pull up to the run-down apartment block. More than that, he notices that Clint seems to be flagging; tense and worn all at once. Clint had never wanted to be out around dawn and while Phil’s not sure why he makes up his mind. He’s not getting his hope up by walking Clint up to his place –not getting too invested to make sure the man who had come for him when he was in trouble got home okay. It’s just being polite. 

“You live here?” Coulson eyes the building like he was expecting something enchanted and magical –not a four story walk-up with chipped bricks and graffiti. “Is it bigger on the inside? Are your neighbours Night Folks?” 

“Nope,” Clint grumbles as he gets out of the car, “Just Grills –he’s part troll.” He’s not expecting Coulson to get out of the car with him. 

“Thank you, Sam.” Phil says, “This will be fine. Clint looks like he’s going to fall over; I’ll make sure he gets up to his place. Tell Mr. Rogers we’ll be in touch about tonight.” 

“Coulson, you don’t have to-,” Barton starts but the officer cuts him off with a look that says he’d feel like an ass for leaving him like this. Clint desperately wants to put Coulson back in the car and send him home as the sun gets that much closer, spare the human from seeing Clint for what he really is –a monster –but he’s also beyond glad he doesn’t have to watch the human drive away. 

Phil could have died tonight.

This human man who’s jumped into Clint’s world with both feet could have died –and could still if Clint doesn’t figure this curse out. 

He needs Phil Coulson close today. 

Fuck the dawn, he’ll hold it together or shut himself in the bathroom if he has to.

The mail slots are overflowing in the small entry way, the stairs old and paint chipped as they make their way towards Clint’s floor; the steps creek and groan as they climb. Phil’s shivering a little and eyeing Barton’s tight shoulders and hunched posture. 

“It’s almost dawn.” Coulson’s voice echoes a little in the hall and Clint almost drops the keys he’s fusing with. He’d forgotten how sharp the human is. 

“Yeah. It’s a real pain.” They’re outside his doorway and Clint’s humming just loud enough, “I changed the locks on my front door so you can’t see me anymore,” and the smell of bright clear skies   
drifts through the hallway like a window had been left open. Phil could almost see it through the cold; a flicker of signs and wards glowing faintly like fireflies blinking in and out, but only just.   
Phil can hear the lock turn over and Clint stumbles over the threshold. Dawn is well on its way and his magic will be burned up. He really needs to be in his bathroom with the door locked by then. Clint will offer Phil the couch or his nest if the officer wants, and excuse himself to regret his life curled up on the hard tiled floor of his bathroom. 

Yup. Great plan. 

Phil takes his shoes off and inspects the oddly normal-looking apartment. Phil had expected...magic. Instead a small kitchenette with a few stacked dirty dishes and empty pizza boxes faces an open living area with a warn couch, coffee table and a TV perched on a small shelf. Tangled throw blankets lay crumpled across the couch cushions. A small stack of movies sits beside a jumble of cords that snake about a DVD player. No picture frames on the walls, no mirrors –one phone with a tangled cord hung on the kitchen wall, an arrowhead sticks one photograph of Clint and a pretty red-headed woman. 

A balcony and its glass window throws new morning greys and pinks onto the warn floorboards and plush area rug -, something smells like its burning –like birthday candles having been blown out. The wafting smell of candle smoke…

With it the apartment seems to…fade a little in its brightness. The lived-in welcoming feel of it, as messy as it was, seemed to evaporate. Like the lights had been dimmed. The life quietly drained away to the smell of smoke.

“If you want the couch,” Clint’s voice sounds past exhausted and tight, “I’ve got blankets. Or there’s my nes—bed. I can sleep-,” But his voice cuts out on a slight gasp. 

Phil turns and notices Clint stumbling towards the dim hallway where he assumes a bathroom and bedroom are. His shoulder jams against the wall like he’s misjudged himself in space and he stagers, hand shooting out to catch himself and Phil spies blackened talons that score the wall. 

“Barton -?” He starts after the café owner but the Night Folk flinches and shudders hard –the talons start to chip and fade. The smoke smell is back. Phil can see Clint’s feathers clearer now, his body hunched like he’s holding something in –all his muscles bunched up and holding tight. 

“M’fine –jus’ -,” The café owner’s body jolts like he’s been hit with something, body shuddering terribly. Phil can see the fine shine of sweat on Barton’s neck and his worry ratchets up.

“Clint, what’s wrong?” His voice strong but soaked in concern. The Hawk is still trying to get to the bathroom as his keen vision swims. Just a little further down the hall –just hold the glamour just a little longer. For Phil. His magics are burning up in the dawn, he can feel the spells and wards on his apartment falling away. 

Dawn has come.

Clint’s blood is on fire and his joints and muscles cramp and ache. Knees giving beneath him he tumbles, head hitting the wall as he pitches sideways on his way to the floor. 

“Clint!” Coulson’s voice sounds like it’s come from far away. If he just can hold on -. The feel of Coulson’s gun-calloused hand on his shoulder blade is a painful whisper. “Clint –talk to me.”

Faintly he thinks this is exactly what he didn’t want to have happen; this whole thing right here, this was what he was hoping to keep from the officer now standing over him.   
Between the pounding in his ears –the blood now burning in him –he can faintly tell that Coulson’s calling out his name again and again. The officer’s standing over him, trying to turn him over into a recovery position, not the crumpled heap he’s made of himself. Clint’s eyes prink with tears as he tries to hold the tattered glamour together –he can’t do this, he can’t do this to Coulson, he has to keep it together….and he fails. 

The scent of burnt out candles fill the hall, thin and silent. 

“Clint -! Hang on, you’re going to be okay-,” Phil’s voice is tight as he tries to hold off panic. Tight like he’s talking to a rooky who’s been hurt in the field, but inside he’s all knots. Clint’s gone pale and sweaty where he’s fallen to the hall floor and damnit Phil doesn’t know who to call as he tries to move him –keep him from choking if he’s sick.  
“You’re going to be okay, Clint.” A human ambulance is right out –do they even treat Night Folk? 

“Phhi-,” Barton’s whine sounded like a jumbled up version of his name and Coulson scoops up one of the café owner’s hands in his own. 

A neighbour maybe? But would they even know what was wrong? Phil’s reaching for Clint’s pockets pulling out the cellphone kept there in the thin hope of someone to call. The touch makes the café owner flinch –like a full body jolt and Phil whispers that he’s sorry. 

Kate from the café would probably know what to do. Does he even have her number? Would the café even be open in the ---,

The dawn ---but could a simple sunrise have really caused all this?

The sharp sound of tearing fabric rips through his worry as Clint’s shirt bursts and from his bare back rust-coloured wings tear and reach for the ceiling causing Phil to sit down hard or risk being hit. Clint’s talons scrape into the floor; dig into Coulson’s hand, his eyes and features going wild and unnaturally deadly – hauntingly beautiful and not at all human. The cry that tears itself from Barton’s throat isn’t anything that would come from a man. He’s panting, breathing heavy and hard between moans.   
Clint looks awful –pale and hurting -but Phil tries very hard to stay calm as the cold of his curse burns in his chest. Dawn comes every day and Clint hasn’t keeled over yet. Why should he this time? 

He should be okay, right? 

Right? 

Phil’s thumbing Clint’s phone open and, after guessing at the lock code –really Barton? 12345? –he finds a number. The one at the very top. He presses call and prays it’s someone who can help. 

“Just hang on, Barton. We’re going to be okay.” He whispers as the phone rings, hand brushing some of the sweaty blond hair away from Clint’s brow. He’s shuddering under Coulson’s touch, both too hot and too cold. Should he move Barton? Should he get some blankets? A wet towel to mop the sweat from his skin? Is there something he shouldn’t do –what if he only makes this worse?

“Are you safe?” The voice that answers the phone call is the same beautiful one he’d heard a few nights ago, but far more concerned –even dangerous, “Barton, it’s dawn –are you alright?” 

“It’s Phil,” He starts, “Barton’s down-, the morning caught us by surprise,” 

There’s silence over the line for a beat or three and then the voice says, “You’re at his apartment?” It doesn’t sound much like a question –then a deep exasperated sigh, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” And the woman hangs up before Phil can ask any questions. 

Phil’s back hits the opposite wall, sliding down to sit opposite the Hawk who’s shaking hasn’t yet slowed –still clutching Barton’s hand. He tugs his suit jacket off and carefully, Phil moves to place it under Clint’s head so he’s not laying against the cold, hard floorboards. Silently he reaches for a clawed hand again and wraps it in his own. Help was on the way.


	9. Spiders

The door to Clint’s small apartment pushes open with a breath letting the cool air from the hallway in and Phil’s on his feet, putting his body between Clint and the doorway with his side-arm out and pointed at the intruder. A woman –a shadow –red hair like embers, a face pale and beautiful; and eyes that aren’t human –not at all. Eyes that could skin a man down to his last secret; leave him heaving, leave him squealing, leave him begging, offering anything, anything for her. 

The cold screams up Phil’s arm and throbs boldly in his chest –the gasp he chokes out hangs in the air like on a cold day. His arm shakes and the gun in his hand jitters; he couldn’t make a clean shot now if his life depended on it. 

And the cold is telling him it very well might. The woman before him is as hauntingly gorgeous as Clint. And no more human, Phil knows.   
And dangerous –Phil knows. 

Still the woman waits calmly giving Coulson a moment; calmly eyeing up the man that has Barton’s affections. So this was Clint’s human? A man willing to point a gun at her –like it would matter, like it would even slow her down –to keep her from Clint. 

Fascinating. 

The moment is gone and Natasha moves gracefully past Phil towards Barton who’s still down in the hallway. Past him like his gun is a toy, like he –a grown man –isn’t much more than a distraction. 

“Foolish little bird,” She sighs with a note of fondness, kneeling over the café owner, “You know better than to stay out until dawn.” She tilts his crumpled face towards her with her pretty hands, never flinching away from his haunting beauty. The Hawk’s visibly shaking pain wracking his frame. 

“Tasha-?” His voice rough and thin in the morning, his brow creased and worried. 

“Shhh, Clint, it’ll be over soon.” She sooths, eyeing the human’s jacket tucked under Barton’s head with care. Sometimes, every now and then, humanity still surprised her. 

Phil slowly lowers his weapon and lets out a breath, “You’re-,” 

“Natasha.” She offers, not looking up from where she’s touching a hand to Clint’s brow, “we spoke on the phone.” 

“Only briefly.” Phil admits with a little more feeling than he means –that jealousy is squirming back up but now isn’t the time, “Is Barton going to be alright?” 

“He’ll be fine –it’s just the dawn; it burns up Sidhe magic and leaves them exposed. Hurts a lot too from what I’m told.” She lifts an eyebrow at a groan from the Night Folk on the floor that must have been a ‘fuck you’. 

“This happens every morning?” Phil wonders incredulously. 

“Three-hundred and sixty-four days a year.” The redhead gives him a little quirk of her full lips that’s almost a smile as she’s looping her arms under Clint’s, pulling him up in an effort to get him towards his nest, “He’ll thank us for getting him off the floor,” she assures as the café owner moans weakly at being moved. Phil comes over to help take Clint’s weight mindful of his wings. The soft plumage brushes against his shoulder and neck. Phil’s curious about the rest of Clint’s tiny apartment, the hallway is dim and the room at the end seems only to allow enough ambient light to see by. 

The bedroom is made up mostly of a bed that is a tangled nest of blankets and clothes –pillows and sheets and a hoodie that must have been Natasha’s once. Knickknacks line the small nightstand and the drawers of clothes; a Pez dispenser, a misshapen toy from a carnival game, a pile of coins and an array of arrowheads. Like a magpie’s collection each item seems to have its haphazard place.   
Natasha helps Phil carry Clint towards the pile of bedding and lay the café owner down. The Night Folk seems to boneless-ly sink into his bundle of worn clothes and plush blankets. He’s still exhausted and worn and achy but less tense; and when Phil eyes a digital clock on the nightstand he sees that the dawn in waning into morning. 

He catches himself brushing a hand over Clint’s sweaty brow, but remembering his company Phil takes his hand away, eyeing Natasha. 

“Come,” She says, “He’ll sleep the rest of the morning off. We need to talk.” Natasha had contemplated dropping her own glamour –it would be much easier to lift Barton with eight legs and maybe she ought to just rip that bandaid off and let Clint’s human really see her for what she is. He’s gotten himself tangled up enough with Night Folk as it is –he’s going to have to see far stranger. But Clint’s likely upset enough that Coulson’s seeing him like this. 

“We’re not a thing –Barton and I.” Natasha says as they reach the living area. Phil looks up suddenly, eyeing her like he’s trying to see if she’s serious. “I’m concerned our last conversation left you with the wrong impression.” 

“It had crossed my mind.” Phil admits warily, his insides not sure of what to hope for here. 

Natasha sits perched on the coffee table leaving the well-worn couch for Phil. When he hesitates a beat she gestures to the couch with an offering hand, encouraging him to sit. “Over the centuries there are humans who have used Night Folk to do terrible things. It’s not so hard if you’re brave enough –or stupid enough to break the Treaty; we all have our weaknesses after all. Most humans don’t really believe in boogiemen so it’s easy for us to operate. And typically, if we’re caught, the Treaty will consider us too dangerous and we’re put down. Monsters can be very useful, if disposable, tools,” She pauses, lets this sink in, the burns on her arm, the scars on her exposed skin, “I’ve done terrible things, Officer Coulson.” 

He really sees her then. Eight black eyes, blackened body and face split by fangs. A spider caught in a jar; starved and let out only to feed on the secrets of men. The cold in him crawls up his chest and causes him to shudder –his arm trembling badly. An ancient part of Phil’s human hindbrain tell him he ought to be running right now, running and never looking back. 

“So when the Hunters caught me, when I was done, I was prepared to die –I was fine with it, or I thought I was -, but Clint interfered. He got them to make a different call. I’m on a pretty tight leash now, but I’m alive. Clint really stuck his neck out for me --- And I said ‘thank you’.”   
At first Phil misses it but then, “You owe him a favour.” 

“I owe him a favour,” Natasha smiles pretty, sadly, almost human, tucking some of her burning hair behind her ear, “And my life. Clint and I don’t exactly have many people in our corner; the Fae value pure blood, of which Clint is not and I’m on a lifetime of probation. Love is for children, Officer Coulson; Clint Barton’s the only friend I have, and he tends to get himself hurt a lot –I’d rather not see that happen again.” 

“If this is a shovel talk, Natasha-,” Phil begins. 

“If the day comes that I need to bury you I won’t need a shovel, Officer, and I won’t insult you with a warning.” Her voice is lovely and sweet as she threatens, “Clint and I aren’t together; we never have been. I just wanted to clear that up.” 

Phil’s shivering a little when he can feel a little of the life come back into the apartment. It’s well after sun-up and the officer can just tell that the room feels brighter, the paint more vibrant, the lived-in feeling is back. Clint’s magic is back. 

From where he’s sitting beside Clint’s nest, Phil watches the Night Folk’s sides breath out a deep bone-weary sigh as the pain finally subsides. Like a man finally released of his aches, the Hawk finally, visibly, relaxes. Light pools into the room through slits in the curtains, casting ambient light in pools across the floor making the bedroom feel far more comfortable and welcoming than the dull magic-less walls had. Coulson’s been sitting with Clint for some time; studying the knickknacks in an otherwise bare room and wondering if Natasha’s really right about Barton getting past the dawn without any real damage. Phil can tell when the café owner starts to wake because his clawed hand squeezes a little on Phil’s fingers which had slipped into Barton’s earlier. Clint’s eyelids flutter and his wings twitch and stretch up towards the ceiling before folding themselves neatly against Clint’s back. 

Coulson feels his own breath come a little easier –one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since he saw Clint collapse in the hall. The officer tightens his grip on Barton’s hand. 

“Coulson?” Clint is very awake suddenly then, the moment shattered, trying to pull his clawed hand back as though it could burn Phil. The Hawk is still sore and tired from the dawn and Coulson can tell he’s not quite at one hundred percent. 

“It’s alright, Barton –you’re home. It’s past dawn –don’t overdo it.” He assures as the café owner’s eyes take in his own room and the chair that Phil’s borrowed, “You scared me.” The officer’s words make Clint’s face crumple up and he’s apologizing quickly, trying to fumble for his first glamour of the day.

“No -, wait, you don’t need to do that,” Phil mourns the gold in Clint’s eyes as it starts to vanish behind a human disguise. 

“Sorry –I know I’m hard to look at-,” Their words run over each other until Phil’s hand darts out and grabs Clint’s still-clawed fingers. The café owner freezes –holds his breath like Coulson is an animal he’s trying hard not to spook. 

“You scared me because you collapsed in your hallway and I didn’t know how to help.” The human says, eyes locked on Clint’s, “I was worried because you were hurt –not because of this.” And he nods at Clint’s half-covered appearance.   
The Night Folk just stares, a little wary, waiting –watching –for the lie. The dawn and it’s pain a sudden afterthought. 

“I’m a monster, Phil. A real one.” Clint’s voice is tight and quiet –almost a whisper, like if he says it with real power the human in front of him will realize it and run like he ought to have from the day he first realized what Clint was. 

For a moment Phil studies the man before him. 

“You’re an excellent shot, Clint; you’re brave –maybe a little reckless -, and a remarkable man.” The officer’s voice doesn’t waver, gun-calloused hand still on Barton’s, his eyes still on his hauntingly beautiful face, “And you’re not hard to look at. Quite the opposite, actually. ” 

A small blush runs up Phil’s cheeks as Clint’s stunned enough to drop the glamour he’d been holding –his shoulders drop, his wings relax –like he was holding himself so tightly just in case. Phil smiles, lets his lips quirk up, his eyes crinkle in the corners, “Stunning.” He whispers as he sees Clint’s features uncovered once more, “But if it makes you more comfortable-,” 

“My wings ache when I have to hide them all the time.” Clint blurts out, then, “Are you sure? Really, Coulson, I can cover up if it’s too much.” 

“It’s really not.” Phil says, cold hand drifting to cup Barton’s cheek as gentle as the kiss he’d placed on Clint’s burned hand forever ago. “In the interest of disclosure up until very recently I thought you and Natasha were perhaps a thing.” 

Clint’s still for a moment before barking out a laugh that sounds a little like the cry of a hawk, “Really? Nat and me? No –Coulson, no; we’re close but no.” His eyes are still light with laughter as he cups the human hand on his cheek. 

“Well I realize that now, but when she answered the phone the other day and said you were busy…I guess I assumed-, and it wasn’t like we’d been on more than one date-,” Phil feels a little silly, the blush dusting his cheeks a brighter red. 

Clint’s doing the math in his head before remembered sacking out at Nat’s place. 

“I was sleeping –alone –at her place after the whole Wendigo thing. She’s a good friend, one of the best, but that’s it, Coulson. Promise.” Clint squeezes the human’s fingers. The moment is interrupted when Phil shivers, body exhausted from the night and the dawn and it all.   
Barton’s brow furrows and tugs on Phil’s hand still in his –really looking at Phil then and seeing the weariness of being up all night. 

“Come here,” He offers. It sounds more like a question than anything but Phil goes, eases himself onto the side of the nest. The nap he had and the new day is just enough to get some of his magic back up.

“Hot blooded, check it and see. I got a fever of a hundred and three,” Clint sings softly and the first sparks of a new spell breathe warmth into Phil’s skin. He tries to put a little more into it, worried after the events at the pack’s farmhouse. 

“Do you have your own playlist for this stuff?” Phil asks only half seriously as the heat eases through his body. He can’t help relaxing against the pillows and blankets nearly boneless –a sigh of relief gusting out of his chest. 

“Just keep my ears open.” Clint shrugs, pleased with himself that he could take the bite of frost from between Phil’s ribs, “Anything that might make a good spell –can’t really afford to be picky.” He half teases. Already the human beside him is flagging, exhaustion kicking in.

“Typically I wait until at least the third date.” Phil tries to joke but it’s broken by a yawn. He’s getting attached and right now Phil Coulson can’t bother to fight it. 

“Not expecting anything other than a nap, Coulson.” Clint really should offer to sleep on the couch as Coulson shrugs out of his dress shirt and shoes but he can’t help wanting to keep the officer close. Protected, safe here in his nest that smells like him –surrounded by his stuff and his sheets not the furs of the Pack house’s spare room. The dawn is at their backs. 

“Tell me this is okay. Tell me you’re not scared.” He begs quietly in the dim room, drinking in the smell of the human close by. “Tell me if it’s too much, Coulson –I swear I don’t want to scare you.” 

”I’m not scared of you, Clint Barton.” Phil’s eyelids are heavy, his words dipping as he presses himself to Clint; his front to the Hawk’s, pressing comfortably into the Night Folk’s space. The Café owner hesitates, almost freezes up, before gently wrapping his arms around the human in his nest, the solid, alive weight of him a reminder. 

One of Phil’s hands rests comfortably against Clint’s back, fingers brushing lightly against his skin there and occasionally getting close to the skin where feathers meet back. Sparks of pleasure rush up Clint’s spine as the human in his arms brushes gun-calloused fingers just a little closer to the base of his wings. The café owner can’t help the small gasp that follows. 

“You’re gonna need to stop playing with my wings if you want this nap to stay just a nap.” His voice is a little strained and Phil’s eyes snap up to see Clint’s cheeks dusted pink. He feels Clint pulling his hips back to avoid any friction or embarrassment –Phil didn’t mean anything by it surely; he didn’t know about Clint’s wings. 

“Another time then.” Phil agrees and Clint groans at the thought of ‘another time’ and that Phil Coulson would be willing to entertain the thought of touching Clint’s wings on purpose. 

“You’re really taking all this well.” Barton tries for humor as Phil presses back into Clint’s space, stifling a yawn. “You could have died yesterday, Phil.” Clint’s arms tighten around the sleepy officer suddenly serious; his wing protectively arches over to shield Phil from the outside world. His chest floods with something that must be love and the overwhelming sense of what might have happened. 

“I didn’t,” Phil reassures already drifting off warm and safe, “y’came and got me.” 

Natasha is making coffee when Phil’s phone chirps in his jacket pocket. She casts it a look over her shoulder like it’s offended her before fishing it out to glare at the screen. It’s far too early for either the human or the Night Folk down the hall to be getting up after an all-nighter. 

“You have something called PT in an hour.” Her voice echoes down the hall to where the Hawk and his human are sleeping. She’d let them rest but this seems important; a man she’d killed once had been taking PT –he was an easy mark. Maybe more of the PT would have made him less easy to kill. 

Pouring out two mugs of hot coffee and tucking the phone into her pocket she walks down the tight hall to Clint’s nest. 

Phil had been warm and relaxed under the canopy of Clint Barton’s wing; the down trapped the heat from the café owner’s spell and the nest smelled like his magic. Clint had his nose buried in Phil’s hair, his impressive arms wrapped around the officer holding him to his chest where a strong steady heartbeat lived. 

Phil was half-awake and half surprised to feel it beating there; not sure what to expect with Clint’s Night Folk biology. It seemed like he’d just managed to drift off to sleep; the kind that was deep enough to dream.

The cold there tingles up his spine; the bodies of Emen’s parents lie bloodied with feathers like Clint’s burst from their chests and spilling from their mouths. “Come.” They whisper. And Phil find himself on his back on their apartment floor too, his own guts open to the cold air as wolves circle around; their muzzles thick with blood. They snap and snarl over him, their breath hanging in the air as they devour him. 

Someone’s calling his name in the cold. 

“Come.” The wolves say with their muzzles in his guts. 

And Phil screams. 

Coulson comes awake sweating and shaking with warm, rough hands cupping his face and shoulder –restrained enough to keep him from thrashing like he’s embarrassed he might have been. 

“Breathe, Coulson. Just breathe.” Barton’s voice is a rumble soft but urgent, his face concerned and hovering, those broad wings tucked around him like a shield lifting just enough to see past into the broader room, “We’re at my place –you’re fine. It was just a nightmare.” 

“Is he awake?” A woman’s voice says. Coulson can make out her red hair and her tight stance between the feathers of Clint’s wings. She’s holding his cellphone. She isn’t human.

“Yes.” The officer manages to croak, shuddering. That cold nagging that occurs when Natasha is around it back like some kind of messed up warning system. Slowly Clint’s wings fall away and Phil tries not to mourn the loss of them around him. He’s a little more embarrassed to have woken everyone up and having Barton’s best friend barging in on them like a parent catching two teens fooling around. 

Nat seems to have found Barton in weirder situations before, though, as she seems more or less unfazed now. “Here.” She tosses Phil’s phone onto the bed before placing a mug of coffee on the night stand. “You have a PT meeting in half an hour.” 

Coulson groans and lets his head drop back to the cushions and blankets of the nest that smells so much like Clint and a little like himself now for having slept here. He needs more than the measly hours of sleep the two of them got –Clint too, he’s sure, but Phil doesn’t want to call and cancel. 

“I’ll take you.” Clint says, “Your car’s still at the morgue.” 

“You drive?” Phil wonders having never seen the café owner behind the wheel and just assuming after their trip with the sling ring that Clint Barton did not actually drive anywhere –and who would with wings, really? 

“He does not.” Natasha says matter-of-factly from the doorway.

“I can! I’m great at cars.” Clint tries to defend when Phil gives him a deadpan look, “I’ve got a licence, I’ll borrow Grill’s truck-,” 

“I will drive you both.” Natasha says. “Breakfast is in five. Be up or I’m not saving you any.” 

“Oh, little bird, you are a mess.” For not knowing what PT was, Natasha knows what humans eat and that Phil Coulson might need more than was typical since his curse was progressing. What she doesn’t see was an abundance of edible food in Clint’s fridge. A few stale boxes of takeout and a can of beer –the human kind not even the good stuff. Natasha makes a note to get groceries. She does however find enough dry cereal and chocolate milk to make something resembling a meal. 

She bins the stale take out boxes. 

“This is wonderful, thank you, Natasha.” Coulson says with an even voice despite the deadpan look on his face. She can’t help the little quirk of a grin that tugs at her lips. Most people who realize what she is wouldn’t even try for dry humor but… 

“Is this really what you eat?” Coulson eyes Barton from the kitchen island where he sits. 

“No.” Clint denies trying hard not to dwell on the image of Phil at his table. 

“Yes.” Natasha confirms without looking up from the freezer and it’s freezer-burned meat. 

“Sometimes.” Clint amends. He’s still fighting a blush because Phil Coulson is eating his food, Phil’s at his counter eating his food. The Hawk in him preens and he tries to quash it because Coulson doesn’t know about how significant that might be for Clint, and also Clint hadn’t made the cereal monstrosity either. 

One day, Clint thinks, I’ll catch him a real rabbit myself. 

Does Phil like rabbit? 

“He eats rabbits and deer when he can.” The Widow says pulling a hunk of protein that must have been a bunny once and tossing it into the waiting oven to thaw. “There was a memorable time with a skunk. It took forever to get the smell out of your feathers.” Her nose wrinkles up at the memory. 

“I order pizza.” Clint says, glaring at Natasha while clearing off the countertop of two empty boxes from a local delivery. Phil raises an eyebrow. 

“And Lucky Charms.” He tips a spoon of the sugary abomination that is his breakfast at his host. 

They leave Barton’s apartment; the café owner fussing with the keys and humming a few bars of a nursery rhymes –the really strong stuff –to remake the magical wards. Phil watches the lock and doorknob glow faintly as the spells set in. Clint’s got his first glamour of the day on and Phil’s watching his back where the café owner’s wings ought to be. Coulson remembers the feel of the soft downy feathers where they met skin and how warm they were around him. Those wings are tucked there tight against his back and away from sight and that’s a real shame but Phil’s got the suspicion that Hunters really wouldn’t like it if Clint went parading them around. 

He’d promised another day and he’d meant it –as punch-drunk as Phil had been when he said so.

As it turns out Natasha driving them meant the Widow hailing a passing car, smiling sweetly at the middle aged driver. She leans into his open car window, telling him quietly, politely, and in detail a very embarrassing, intimate secret the driver had never dared tell another living soul. Something only he could have known and would likely have ruined him if anyone else knew. But there it was on Natasha’s lips. The Widow gives him an ultimatum; keep his car, or keep his secrets. Sweating and pale the driver chose his secrets and let the three have the car. 

“It will be back here at this building for you by the end of the day.” She assures the shaken man who’s now standing on the curb short one car. 

“What did you do to that man?” Coulson asks, eyeing the driver and wondering if he as a cop should be concerned as they start to buckle up and pull out into traffic. 

“Just reminded him of the summer of ‘96.” She smiles, “You’re never more than three feet away from a spider.” 

“This isn’t breaking your magic parole is it?” Phil wonders, “It’s definitely breaking some mundane laws.” He’d really not want to get the Spider into trouble and doesn’t imagine any magic parole officer is going to be too forgiving or lenient. 

“Not as such.” Natasha doesn’t take her eyes off the road, “No spells over the third level, no traveling internationally without preapproval, can’t be anywhere near a government building, frequent check-ins from a Treaty judge, and no killing outside of the allotted feeding schedule.” 

Coulson had wondered what Natasha ate –certainly not rabbits or Lucky charms. That cold in him is back but he ignores it. 

“You can relax –I do my research, I make sure they deserve it.” And oddly Phil believes her. If the Widow had wanted him dead she’d had pliantly of chance. 

The PT office is a little busier than usual and Clint looks like he’s going to fall asleep in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs but Natasha looks much more on edge; as though she’s not been in a crowd of humans for a long time. The waiting room is overly warm and with only a few old magazines and a mounted TV screen playing endless news loops it’s easy to see why Clint’s slouched heavily in the hard plastic chair, head drooping forward.

“Mr. Coulson?” The receptionist calls his name to head on back for his session. For a minute he glances back at Natasha who is eyeing every other patient like a potential assassin and Clint who’s lightly dozing, muttering something about sandwiches in his half sleep. Phil decides leaving the two out here in the crowded waiting room for his half hour session would not end well. 

“And how’s the arm and chest this week?” Phil’s therapist is kind and doesn’t seem to mind the two ‘guests’ Phil’s brought staring holes into her as she walks Phil through his exercises. 

“Alright.” Phil guesses, holding himself in position for the count of ten before starting his set again.

“Have you been doing your exercises at home?” She asks and Phil sees the two Night Folk move their attention to him like two mother hens. He thinks back to the Wendigo he fought, to the Wolf he chased through the woods and the Hunters he tried –and failed –to apprehend. 

“Yes.” Phil decides these adventures count especially since he’s only been shirking those exercises of his since these little adventures started. Coulson had been quite diligent even; right up until he was nearly gutted by a cannibalistic snow creature in Clint’s café which seemed reasonable enough. 

Natasha however seems to be able to smell a lie and narrows her eyes at him just slightly –only someone really looking would know. A shock of cold runs through him and for a moment Phil tenses. 

“Maybe practicing a little more.” His very nice therapists suggests catching either his lie or his sudden tension. She’s likely used to detecting bullshit. The rest of the session goes well and Phil’s happy to hurry Natasha and Clint back to the car, his body feeling that post-session soreness. 

“You will be doing your exercises at home.” Natasha says firmly from behind the wheel of the car she’s driving like she owns. 

“Was a little busy fighting a Wendigo and not getting eaten by wolves.” Phil deadpans but doesn’t argue. Clint’s hand sneaks into his and squeezes a little like he too is remembering those things.

Natasha hums at him –the sort of ‘hmm’ that sounds like it came from the mouth of a woman who was dissatisfied with his answer, but willing to let it go. For now. She takes them around town towards a high school busy with young students clad it backpacks and light fall jackets. Some hang about in small groups, others pass by with earbuds tucked in and head down. 

Nat slows the car. 

“Really? This guy?” Clint sounds a little incredulous. 

“Share with the class?” Phil asks more than a little confused as to why the sudden detour. 

“A correspondent of mine -,” Natasha says easily as through the crowd a teen –lanky, brown hair, average height for…sixteen? Seventeen maybe; Phil ballparks –cuts through the crowd and towards the car. 

Natasha unlocks the passenger door and he hops in, fussing with his seatbelt as she moves the vehicle back into traffic. 

“Hey, Ms. Widow –Mr. Barton, sir.” The boy leans around the seat to wave at Clint; bright eyes, soft face set in a welcoming smile, “Oh wow, new faces –hey, I’m Peter,” And he offers a hand. 

“Officer Coulson.” Phil feels the need to be a proper adult in this situation since they’ve just picked up a literal child. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” 

“I just-,uhh” Peter looks a little flustered and stuck like he’s not sure what the right answer would be and looks quickly to Natasha. And in that moment the cold rocks through him; sharp in his chest and he sees the boy. 

“You’re fine, Peter.” Natasha assures, “Coulson’s helping with an investigation.” The boy –the Spider beside her has eight eyes dotting his face like black gems, his face splits into fangs and while he resembles Natasha he’s not quite like her in the body –streaks of blue and red along his neck and instead of a sternum and thorax like Natasha has, his extra limbs seem to come from his back. Curious. 

The boy’s Night Folk –and not at all a pushover if the cold in Coulson’s chest is to be believed. Phil wonders about what he eats and if this kid needs a permit like Natasha does; he sincerely hopes not. 

Coulson doesn’t startle when Clint puts a hand on his shoulder but it’s a near thing. 

“You okay?” Clint asks quietly, though the concern there. 

“Fine.” Phil fibs about the cold but takes Clint’s hand when it’s offered. 

“So ---I guess you’re not going to eat him?” Peter eyes the cop in the back seat and Natasha a little nervously. 

“No.” Both Natasha and Clint say at once. 

“Cool. That’s cool.” Peter says, “Cause I really don’t want to see that.” 

The coffee shop is busy in the morning and full of humans and maybe a few Night Folk as well if Phil’s eyes are telling the truth. Most just shuffling through the stretching line towards coffee and a muffin; they sip lattes over laptops or on their way out the door towards work. Phil remembers those days with Jasper getting their morning coffee before hitting their beat. 

Now he’s sitting in a booth near the back, coffee’s and a few muffins of their own. Peter Parker, it turns out, is a mutt like Clint –Phil is quickly losing any taste for the slur. Part human and part Spider; which probably explained his looks, Coulson supposes. His human Aunt knows about him, which must be some relief, especially with his parents gone.

“So don’t become some background noise, a backdrop for the girls and boys who just don’t know and just don’t care, and just complain when you’re not there --All we hear is Radio ga ga, radio goo goo,” Clint hums a little, “Radio what’s new? Radio someone still loves you.” And a thick dome of quiet falls over the table. The smell of coffee grinds almost overpowers the smell of clear skies. The people outside just seem to go dull; the grind of coffee beans and called out orders melt down into a soft buzz of background noise as though in another room. 

“They can’t hear us, I suppose?” Phil wonders, nursing his coffee and quietly reaching for Clint’s hand.

“Not a thing.” Clint grins proudly around his own drink, taking Phil’s fingers in his. “They won’t pay any attention to us either.” 

“It’s awesome you can use super old song like that,” Peter offers, cheeks stuffed with muffin. Clint and Phil shoot the Spider a look. 

The conversation sails smoothly over to how the teen’s doing in school, his Aunt and if he’d seen any good movies lately. To Coulson it seems that Natasha is a second doting aunt; treating her little spider with muffins and confident ‘As I knew you would’s when he mentioned acing his classes. 

“Peter,” Natasha slides her phone out and towards the teen, “Have you seen anything like this before?” The photo of Tabatha Lockley’s burned skin looks up at the boy from the screen. 

Peter gulps loudly and eyes the brand. “No.” He eyes it seriously, “This from one of the missing Night Folk?” 

Clever boy –though Phil supposes any Night kid’s been warned by now to come straight home and don’t talk to strangers. Coulson really doesn’t want this kid becoming a cold case for him to file away in the precinct. 

“Yes.” Natasha confirms. “I need you to see if you can find any more of these marks in town.” 

Phil takes exception to this, “He’s a child, Romanoff -,” 

“He’s perfectly capable-,” Natasha levels Phil with a look as though he’s being absurd. 

“He’s right here.” Peter says, hands up to mollify the two, “Natasha’s never asked me to do anything super dangerous and I’m one of her   
spiders; I can handle the responsibility.” 

“Phil’s not wrong, kid; this is going to be dangerous.” Clint says from across the table, “Whoever’s out there knows what they’re doing. You can say no to this.”

“But if I find more of these,” He holds up Natasha’s phone with the skull brand, “it could help stop people from disappearing, couldn’t it?” 

“Yes.” Even Phil can’t lie about that. 

“So I’m going. I’ll be super careful, I won’t get caught –I promise –I’ll report in too, I won’t let you down.” The boy sounds so young and Phil really doesn’t want him going out there –but it’s probably too late for that. The instant Nat showed him her phone it was too late. Phil can just tell that Peter’s the kind of kid to go on his own with or without their blessing. 

“You let Natasha know every step you make,” Phil’s not sure how this thing works –Peter being one of her spiders –“You see anything, anything out of place you tell Natasha and you go home.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter agrees and the meeting comes to an end. 

Phil watches, can’t take his eyes away, as the youth before him starts to change. His body twisting and moving until extra legs sprout from his back, fangs split his face and his body lurches forward over the table. Phil can just make out the sounds of his insides sloshing around as his body readjusts. Fine hairs sprout, eyes blink open like tiny black jewels, and Peter becomes less and less a boy. His size seems to be diminishing until he’s as big as…well as a spider. 

He is a spider –those red and blue markings stripe across his thorax, his eyes bright as they glance up at Natasha and then scuttles across the table, up the wall and into a crevasse near the ceiling. And just like that the boy is gone. 

“Gotta say, that was new.” Phil’s voice is steadier than he feels. 

Clint lets the magic drop around them and the world rushes in to the call of ‘Large double non-soy Frappuccino for David!’ 

On the way back to Clint’s –Peter Parker safely on his way -the Widow takes them past a pizza place and a butchers shop on their way to the safety of Clint’s apartment –the pizza for them the meat for Clint’s freezer. The Hawk looks half asleep despite the coffee as he munches a slice of meat-lovers. He watches Phil move onto his second piece of pizza and wonders what his next move should be with Coulson’s curse. 

The Witches couldn’t help; the Sorcerer’s had more or less struck out …who else was crafty enough to lift a curse they didn’t cast?   
The Fae. Clint knew that; but there’s no way he could go to them and there’s no way any court –Summer or Winter –would help a human (or a mutt like Clint) for free. And their price would be far out of Clint’s range. Strange had cautioned that the only one who could lift that curse safely was the caster so maybe he was going about this all wrong. Clint just needs a name. 

There’s enough ice users in the Night Folk’s ranks; the Wendigo from the North, the Yuki-onna from the East –but neither make a practice of cursing people they stab. Yeti rarely traveled down from their mountains and certainly weren’t capable of mustering a curse. 

The Mahaha have the claws for a stabbing, but they make sure their victims are dead; frozen and smiling. Never mind that they aren’t the brightest either. Jack Frost himself isn’t this much of an asshole –no way he’s showing up in a jewelry store stabbing cops. 

Clint sighs –the list is too long for this guessing game. Would the Fae be able (or willing) to give him a name? Probably. They were old as balls –who didn’t they know? The real question was what was the price of a name? 

He’s turning it over in his tired head, slouched in the backseat with Coulson when Phil says, “We have a meeting tonight with Steve about our last lead and I think I know what we’re looking for.” 

Natasha eyes him from behind the wheel of the car. 

“Vampires.”


	10. Vampires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So apparently when I had JARVIS's speech in < > it uploaded funny ---sorry for those that read before the fix.

The world is very different from the high of a spider; but Peter finds he’s able to reach all kinds of places most folks will never see. In this case it’s a dingy pipe, damp and musty, but leading into a building he’d found just in town. Something had seemed off about it, not obviously so but just a feeling like something wasn’t right. Call it Spider Senses or that teenage nose for trouble, whatever, Peter needed to take a look. 

Shifting into his more human form Peter hangs in the shadows, high up in the rafters inside the warehouse. The interior of the building is empty; dank and dim with only patches of daylight filtering in; but it was the vibrations and the taste of the air that told Peter what he needed to know. 

No one was here, other than a few small flies and a couple other spiders building their webs. No one was here but something had been once upon a time.  
Dropping down to the floor, Peter keeps himself to the darkness a beat, waiting, listening, leaning out to those Spider Senses for anything that could be a threat. 

Nothing. 

Relaxing a touch, the teen moves out into the wider room; a swath of concrete floor spotted with pillars holding the structure up. A little small to be a parking garage, Peter supposes, but definitely used to hold a van if the scent of lingering gasoline was a tell. The deep claw marks in the floor on the other hand were another story. And the taste of coppery blood rusty and old. Something had died here. 

“Oh wow.” Peter turns, finally getting a good look at the broad wall covered in red paint in the shape of that skull and tentacles that Tabatha wore. Letters in the same red paint hang above the symbol, “Natasha’s gonna want to see that –right guys?” Peter asks turning to the larger room and the many eight-legged beings in the darkness.

The spiders slide down from their webs on thin silk, scuttle out from their hidey-holes and towards Peter; eyes peering in the gloom at the wall and at the boy. Some climb up his legs, into his hair and shoulders until he is alive with them; browns and blacks and pale whites, they eye him carefully. 

“Can you guys bring this back to Natasha for me?” He asked, “It’s real important.”

They seem to agree because in moments the spiders have disappeared, returning down the dark crevices, nooks and crannies of the old building –off towards their mistress and leaving Peter very much alone except for the few flies that still buzzed in slow arcs overhead. 

Peter crouches to inspect those deep slashes in the cement when he does sense it; but with all the spiders gone there’s no one to tell Natasha about the people who took Peter. 

Just the flies still buzzing in slow arcs overhead. 

< \---------------------------------<<<<<

Vampires. 

Clint should have known they’d been hit by this too –it’s not like the Vampires didn’t have a big presence in the city. Thinking back the teenager’s missing person’s picture had been up and down in a night at Clint’s café. The family, Phil explains, had come in the evening to ID the body. With only a few questions, the mother’s tears, and a stillness that came with the realization that their son was dead the family had come and gone. Their son’s body gone with them. 

“Didn’t think much of it at the time –grief’s different for everyone. They got a court order to release the body and that was that. And with no leads, no witnesses, no support from the family…the case went cold.” Phil explained that Benjamin had gone missing on the way home from school and had turned up dead within short order. 

The photos of his caved in chest were grotesque, his mouth slack and bloody, his hands roughed up from a fight he’d clearly lost. Blood painted the alleyway. 

“No enemies, no bullies at school or drug abuse, he was doing well in class…just didn’t come home one day.” Phil shrugged sadly. It was every parent’s nightmare.  
It’s late afternoon and the sun is dipping low in the autumn sky –Natasha checking in with a few small house-verity spiders every few hours for word from Peter.  
Clint and Phil had caught a few more hours of sleep and were nursing new cups of coffee. 

Steve Rogers and his Beta Sam had come knocking not long after three in the afternoon. The tall men had stood in the dim, dingy hallway; Sam’s shoes scuffing the threadbare runner of a carpet, Steve scenting the air. He must have been able to tell that this was Clint’s just from the smell. 

Clint had grumbled when the two wolves had shown up sniffing around his hallway but had let them in anyhow. Steve and Sam had waited politely to be offered a seat at the kitchen island and something to drink; both Wolves seeing the apartment and the complex as a whole as Clint’s territory. As much as Wolves ruffled Clint’s feathers he always found them to be excellent guests. 

They’d also eat everything in sight if you weren’t careful –all that changing from fur to skin burned through a lot of calories -, so ordering take out was a must. Natasha paid cash.

Expensive, guests –Clint amends as he snags a box of take-out. They better not shed on his furniture. 

“And you got Vampire from all this?” Natasha wonders, eyeing the photos as she sits on Clint’s couch. The table in front of them still covered in takeout boxes of noodles. Steve Rogers and Sam still perched on stools by the small kitchen island studying the photographs Phil’s passed around from Benjamin’s casefile. They’d eaten most of the takeout themselves. 

Phil hadn’t been a slouch either –the man needing more calories for his body to burn and keep warm. Clint had made sure to save enough of the take-out from the Wolves for the officer. 

“His heart was a mess –like someone tried shoving a broom handle through it –the coroner’s words, not mine.” Phil adds. “I am a bit confused about the sunlight thing, though. And why the boy didn’t just turn to dust.” 

“Different species of Vampire,” Steve shook his head sadly, “Some can deal with sunlight, others not so much. Some are mindless with the need for blood, others keep their wits -,” 

“Some of them look like giant mutated bats under their skins.” Sam offers. His Alpha gives him a look but doesn’t deny it either. The Wolves and the Vampires haven’t always been on best terms Clint recalls.

“Some dust up the minute you kill them, others it takes time. The family probably wanted the body fast before it turned into a pile of ash.” Clint finishes.  
Phil grimaced. Now, of course he’s scanning the crime scene photos for anything that might be that brand that Tabitha’s body wore. 

“There-,” He points. The brand’s not finished –like someone was rushing it –but those sure are the same squirming tentacles and part of a skull, he’s sure. Maybe the coroner hadn’t put it together with Tabitha’s…or maybe they couldn’t see it at all. Maybe these marks were just as much magic as the people they were attached to and without a curse or magic of their own they’d go unnoticed. Perhaps even Phil himself had overlooked it once –before the stabbing. Before the curse. 

“I’ve sent out my spiders; Peter found something interesting.” Natasha says, eyeing the photo Phil’s inspecting; and it’s then that Phil notices the many arachnids crawling about her on the couch, already spinning webs with the beginnings of a word, H-Y-D-R-A, “Not too many people talking, but there’s a building just in town with this symbol inside it.” 

“Worth checking out.” Sam agrees, eyeing the spiders and Natasha like something that might bite him. 

“There are Vampires in town I take it?” Phil asks the room in general. 

“Sure are.” Clint confirms, “A Court that’s pretty powerful actually –the Starks. Going to them will save us canvasing the neighbourhood.” The Starks had held a monopoly on the city. Their Court had shouldered out the other smaller groups with their prestige and wealth. 

Clint knows of a few wet-behind-the-ears, colourful punks at the street level that have made more halfway homes and found families than real Courts; he’s had to shoo the leather clad hooligans away from vandalizing the shops around his café. Give them a century or two under their belts, Clint figures, they’ll come around. 

“We hit the Starks first and then follow up on that building.” Steve decides, “Stark could have intel and I don’t want my Pack going into some warehouse blind.” 

“Anything I need to know before we head over?” Phil looks every inch the cop going in to talk to a witness, dress shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes serious and steady as he sits over the photos from Benjamin’s case. Clint finds he’s just as attracted to this Phil as he is to the Phil that sits at the bar in his café. 

“Vampires are lone hunters but very social within their Courts. The Sark vampires are really persuasive; they can enthrall you with a look or a word and make it feel real good as they take your blood. They’re an America species of vampire; sunlight’s not an issue for any of them.” Sam warns. 

“I suppose crosses are a Hollywood thing.” Coulson offers. “And garlic.” 

“Doesn’t really matter what the symbol, it’s all about belief. Trust something to protect you hard enough and it will.” Steve says, “Garlic just stinks –it’s nothing magical –Vampires in general just have really good noses. If all else fails and it comes to it, officer, go for the heart; no matter the species it’ll put them down.”  
And Phil can tell he means it seriously.

“Vampires can be really hoity-toity, super stuck up about lineage and dynasties and the ruling class –some of them have been running their Courts for centuries.” Clint smirks a little, “But I hear the Starks are a little…eccentric.” 

Steve catches Natasha’s eye in the hallway as they leave Clint’s apartment. The Hawk finishes locking up and leads the group down the hall towards the stairs where the Pack car is waiting. Steve hangs back with her –Sam a few paces ahead, willing to jump in if his Alpha needed.

“Would it be possible for your spiders to look for someone?” Steve asks quietly. 

“In theory.” She offers; their pace down the worn hallway slow, their voices hushed but Steve can sense the many-legged friends Natasha is never far from. Clint’s building must be crawling with them, as any run down building could be. 

Steve pulls out a photograph and a scrap of cloth from his shirt pocket, “Bucky –James Barnes –one of mine has been missing for a while now. I need him back home.” 

Natasha takes the photo and the cloth –cut from a shirt and smelling strongly of wolf. She has little use for the shirt but the picture will do nicely. The man in it is smiling, young and strong. Brown hair short and face alight in the afternoon glow of the Pack house. He’s handsome. 

“I can’t promise anything,” She warns, “the further away he is the longer it might be to find him; if he’s buried it might take a while to discern where.” Steve’s stance tightens considerably at that but doesn’t stop himself from nodding stiffly. 

“Name your price.” He asks, taking a shaky breath. It’s dangerous but fair is fair and he’s desperate to have Bucky home. 

“One secret. I decide what it is and when I get it.” The Widow lays down her terms. 

Sam eyes his Alpha but already knows what he’ll say. “If it’s my secret to give, I’ll give it.” He offers his hand and they shake before taking the stairs down towards the waiting car. 

Sam’s driving and Clint tries very hard not to offer to roll down any windows so the Wolves can stick their heads out. He wonders about the wisdom of bringing Wolves into a Vampire’s Court but saying no to Steve is out of the question at this point –and an Alpha Wolf wouldn’t take being told ‘no’ very well at the best of times. 

“So when you say the Starks you mean the same Starks that run SI?” Phil wonders a little shiver running up his spine. 

“Yup, Stark Industries is run by Vampires.” Clint affirms, “I mean, pretty sure not all the employees are, but Stark himself and likely the higher up around him too.  
Probably why all the tabloids write such nice things about him; the guy just thralls reporters into feeling all gooey inside and everyone leaves happy.” 

Phil had never seen Tony Stark in person before; just a few magazine covers and news articles about high tech AI and robotics advancements the company made –as well as the flashy donations they’d given out to hospitals and charities and the like. Come to think…SI runs a lot of blood donor events. Some statistic crawls back into Phil’s head about how much donated blood is deemed unusable and how convenient that might be for a modern Vampire. 

“You brought your gun, Officer?” Clint’s voice cuts through Phil’s thoughts. 

“Of course.” Phil’s wondering where this is going as the Hawk holds out his hand. 

“Mind letting me give it an upgrade? It’d make me feel a lot better about us heading into a Court.” Clint explains, “Probably should have done this a while ago.” 

“I’m sure you won’t need it tonight.” Steve says from the passenger seat beside Sam, “We’re not going into a fight.” 

Nevertheless Phil agrees that he’s been going into things lately with frighteningly little protection of his own. He hands his gun over. 

“Mama, just killed a man” Clint’s voice is soft as he holds the gun, “put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he’s dead.” The car flushes with the smell of clear skies and soft fresh straw. 

“Isn’t this a little on the nose?” Phil wonders. 

“Mama, life had just begun, but now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.” Clint hums out his last verse. From the front seat Sam sings along near the end earning him a look from the other occupants of the car. 

“What? It’s a classic.” He defends but his tone sours as they pull up closer to Stark Tower. “Great.” Sam groans as they roll up to the brightly lit building, a bouncer at the door and a line of people with passes “Must be having a party.” 

“And they didn’t invite us.” Natasha deadpans. 

The penthouse is alive with moving bodies; women and men writhing to the music which pounds like a pulse rising up from the speakers through the floor and the soles of Coulson’s feet. Strobing neon lights flash and dance across the darkened walls making it hard for Phil to pick out where one person ends and another begins. Drinks overflow with expensive liquor and blood; the scent of it is heady in the air enough that even Phil’s catching it with his human senses. It’s making Sam and Steve edgy; Sam scenting the room, Steve’s murmured “Easy” lost in the current of music. 

Phil remembers busting up a party sort of like this back in his early days on the beat; of course it had been a college house party that had gotten out of hand and he’d had to coax a drunken student off the roof he’d gotten himself stuck on. The kid had thrown up on his shoes for Phil’s troubles.

This was a den of vampires -Phil reminds himself –they’d do more than that. The cold in his chest is keeping him painfully aware of that difference. He rubs his hands together in an attempt to chafe some heat into them.

Steve had said to go for the heart but he’s pretty sure that if a fight broke out here it wouldn’t end well. 

Speaking of which; the crowd of bodies seem to part around Steve and Sam, the Vampires getting a whiff of Wolf and deciding to move away. A few glare red or black eyes their way like they were offended by a dog who had peed on the dance floor. 

Clint, Natasha and Phil take advantage of the wake caused by the Wolves and followed along at a reasonable distance trying not to be jostled in the crowd as it closed off behind them. 

A woman with full lips and a lovely evening gown locks black-blown eyes with Phil; all pupil and no colour, her tongue licking over sharp white teeth both a warning and a sultry invitation as they try to cut through the crowd. Coulson looks away from the woman swiftly, remembering the warning about Stark’s Vampires. 

Phil tries to keep moving but a tall well-built Vampire has materialized between he and Clint and the rest of their group. His body is loose and fluid, his eyes smoke, blood and sex. Everything radiating from him is competence and confidence and Phil’s got his eyes trained on the spot just past his head –the glint of a small gold hoop earring catches off the strobe lights. 

“Well, aren’t you cute.” His voice is hot blood, his breath hinted with alcohol and a spice that makes Phil’s insides feel warm and gooey. Just the sound of that voice. But the Vampire doesn’t seem to have much care for Phil, reaching manicured painted nails towards Clint. Clint whose eyes seem to fog over and Phil watches as the Hawk’s body loosens in its stance. His shoulders drop into a relaxed slouch, his eyes go heavy and Phil can tell Clint’s not himself. 

“That’s it, darling,” The man in front of Clint coos, voice full of smoke and promises, “Darling, you drop that glamour -bet a mutt like you is awful pretty under that skin. Come on, follow my lead-,” 

The slur bites even to Phil’s ears and that does it. The Hawk beside him just nods, head bobbing loosely, eyes glazed and unaware leaning into the Vampire’s touch. 

Phil shoves himself between the Vampire and the Sidhe-shifter breaking their line of sight; his shoulders square, his body strong and he pushes all the clam confidence he has as he steps up on the Vampire. 

“Back off.” Phil makes sure his eyes are looking just slightly over the Vampire’s shoulder; mindful not to make direct eye contact. 

The Vampire looks him up and down in a sweep or two, eyes hot and red-gold; glowing in the dim light. The cold in Phil’s chest tells him this is a big mistake and for a moment he sees the party-goer for what he really is. Sam hadn’t been wrong –the pale face staring back at him is bat-like and wrinkled. His nose flared, lips pulled and grimacing with teeth like needles that even braces wouldn’t fix. The Vampire’s ears are pointed and almost stick out awkwardly from his head. The eyes are the only thing that might be remotely human and they’re dead-looking and bloody. 

“Or what, Human?” The monster in front of Phil steps up to the challenge. “We’re just having a good time here.” His voice is still smoke but Coulson can hear the edge.

“Good time’s over –walk away.” Coulson says. His eyes never lose their focus on the pot just past the party-goer but he can tell that Clint at his back is starting to shake off the pull. The Vampire doesn’t look impressed, sneers as his nails grow hard and long, his teeth really sharpen in the light –those red-gold eyes aren’t smiling anymore. 

“Stupid blood-bag -,” His arm, raised to strike, is caught in a rough grip; Steve’s growl is low in his throat. Clint’s coming to just in time for a brawl; his head swimming and foggy with traces of that feel-good drug still in him. His hand gropes forward for Phil as his awareness returns and the situation becomes clear –Sam moving in to flank his Alpha, Steve’s teeth going sharp and the Vampire in his grasp moving to slash him across the face ---

“There a problem here?” Another Vampire approaches smooth as silk but with a flare that says he owns wherever he is –always. Well dressed, well groomed –not particularly tall but with the scent of iron on him; the Vampire holds the crowd like he owns them. 

The party-goer poised at Steve freezes, the Vampires in the vicinity freeze; like they’re waiting, like they’re caught. Like rabbits in the high beams of something far bigger than themselves. And Phil goes cold all over. His chest aches with it, left arm tremoring and body a line of shivers. Clint moves as he can to stand a little closer to Phil –his own glamour dropping enough to show off his claws and eyes. 

The newcomer eyes Clint and Phil; gives a bit of a painted look at Steve like he feels a headache coming on –his face quickly returning to a showman’s grin.  
“House rules –folks.” The Vampire addresses the crowd with a smile, all teeth and iron in his red-gleaming eyes, “Consent is a sexy law; don’t like it, you can find the door.” 

The party goers seem to be mollified –a few even cowed –nodding and backing away into the crowd of bodies like smoke. The cold in Phil’s chest is ice. 

“Stark.” Natasha is behind the smaller man, the crowd parting around them like water. 

“Romanoff.” Tony Stark smiles, “I thought I told you to keep your itsy-bitsy spiders out of my parties. And I definitely-,” he says, turning to Steve who’s still got his fangs, “put a no pets sign on our front door.” 

“Take it up with your bouncer.” Natasha shrugs, “We’re here on business.” 

Tony insists that their little band is cramping his party vibes and guides the crowd of Night Folk and one human officer out of the crowd to a private room which looked like it cost a small fortune. The ceiling to floor windows cast a view of the city lights blinking in the darkness; plush couches angle towards the cool stone tiled interior. A small bar with stools and shelves of expensive liquor looks fit to entertain and a large flat screen TV hangs on the left wall. This place could be lived in but it doesn’t feel that way. More museum-like than anything. Phil gets the sense that come the dawn the party-goers will all filter out and return to their homes and Tony Stark will be alone in his tower. 

The heavy music from the dance floor pumps a little through the walls but only just. This place is sound proofed well enough, Phil thinks.

"Good evening, Sir. Is the party not to your liking tonight?" A voice echoes from the ceiling in a rich, warm British accent. Maybe not as alone as Phil had thought. 

“Just some unexpected company, JARVIS.” Tony doesn’t bother looking up –unlike Phil or the rest of his party.

"Very good, Sir." And the voice departs. 

“This something you cooked up for SI?” Coulson asks. 

“Something I cooked up for me.” Tony says eyeing the human officer, “JARVIS has full access to this tower; he’s a part of this Coven.” 

Eccentric –Phil thinks to himself. 

“Business,” Tony claps his hands together before pouring a drink from behind the bar and sliding it towards Natasha, “You know the last time you came in here with business I had to call an exterminator? You want info you can just ask.” 

“Would you be honest with me?” Natasha asks leaning on the bar, her eyes dancing and Phil realizes that Tony Stark and the Widow were two people who enjoyed knowing things –likely for different purposes he reasons. 

“We’re here because of the disappearances in town.” Steve cuts to the chase; arms crossed over his chest and brow tight. Phil wonders what went down with the Vampires and the Wolves that left them this tense with each other. 

Tony’s pouring himself a glass of very expensive bourbon as he watches Steve, “And you want me joining your supernatural detective squad?” 

“We were hoping you could give us some insight into Benjamin.” Phil offers the photographs of Benjamin’s body hollowed out in the alley way. Stark eyes the papers and mutters something about not liking being handed things before setting his glass down to look. The room is quiet as he studies each one.

“He wasn’t one of mine, if that’s what you’re asking.” Tony mutters but Phil can tell that Benjamin not being a member of his Court didn’t really matter. His death still hurt. Tony Stark is a Vampire who wore his heart openly. “And I didn’t have him killed –I don’t do that anymore.” The Vampire adds taking a long pull from his glass of bourbon. 

“That’s a thing?” Phil asks arching an eyebrow, “Courts putting out hits?” 

“That is very much a thing.” Clint mutters, “Gets messy when one of these dramatic idiots tries to kill a customer in your restaurant.” 

“Which is why the Starks don’t do that anymore,” Tony spreads his arms, “Dad did his thing; I’m doing mine.” 

“So you won’t mind giving some insight into Benjamin.” Phil presses. 

“An American Vampire; young family –Treaty abiding; they weren’t poaching, I would have known about that –probably horny as anything, I remember being horny at that age.”

“Stark.” Steve chides.

“Sorry mom -,” Tony tosses the pictures down to the bar top, rubs a hand over his face like getting serious about this is taking a toll on him personally, brow wrinkled in distaste. “Trophy hunters took his teeth; that’s a pretty human thing to do.” 

“Is this the first Vampire to end up this way?” Phil asks, all officer of the law. 

“Wish it were, Officer, but we’ve had a few more like this in the past month. Same thing –teeth gone, heart mincemeat.” 

“Any word on who might be responsible?” Natasha wonders, “Someone’s got to be talking.” 

“Yeah, right there,” Stark jabs a clawed finger at the sloppy brand on the boy’s pale body, “This bad ink keep showing up on dead bodies along with a name; HYDRA.” 

“Not the first time we heard that name.” Sam nods, leaving out that their informants were actual spiders. 

“This same mark was on the wrist of a Hunter.” Phil decides to put his cards on the table –see what the head of this Court has to say. 

Stark looks up, eyes red as he rounds the bar; all power and coiled anger, “It ever occur to you –even for a second -that the Hunters are the ones on this spree?” He turns to Phil, “I assume the boy band behind you bothered to tell you about them?” Tony’s smile isn’t nice, too much teeth, too much bravado hiding that heart he wears. He’s used to putting on a face and he’s doing it now –his frustration making him snarky and mean. 

“It had crossed my mind.” Phil says with a straight face despite the pun. 

“Threat!” Tony points after a beat, “This man is threatening me!” 

“They have the authority, the resources; and you all talked about members of your own factions going rouge –why couldn’t Hunters do the same?” Coulson shrugs. 

“The Treaty would have them trussed up -,” Steve says but it almost doesn’t reach his eyes –like he doesn’t want to believe that it would come to that, “We have Night Folk Judges on that Treaty too, they wouldn’t just stand by.”

“Then they sold out.” The Vampire scoffs, teeth flashing, “Don’t be naive, Rogers; the only reason they let you play house on that land of yours is so they have you all in one place.” 

A sharp growl rolls from Sam, “And I suppose your tower’s any better?” 

“My tower is the safest place in this city. With what I’m working on -,” Stark points around his glass of expensive bourbon. 

Phil feels it more than hears it –turning his head towards the hallway and a bank of elevators. The cold in him which had been a low hum of frost is now so frozen it’s steaming. His breath comes as a gasp, his left arm trembling as he clutches at his chest. 

“Phil?” Clint’s at his side. 

“Something’s here.” Natasha’s on alert as JARVIS speaks up.

"Sir someone has tried to access the lower labs." He sounds, not alarmed but worried. 

Tony on the other hand looks tense. 

“What’s in the lab, Stark?” Natasha asks, her eyes read the Vampire’s tension, sniffing out secrets. 

“Not something I want anyone getting their hands on.” And the vampire makes for the elevator followed closely by two Wolves, the Widow, a Hawk and one officer of the law. 

>>>>\--------------------------------->

Peter lets out a shocked gasp as he wakes up, sides flaring, in a cage. The Spider tries to stay still, tries to be quiet, as he reaches out to feel the vibrations in the air, sense the new world he’s woken to and suss out if he’s alone or not. 

It’s cold in the cage and the floor is lightly layered with damp and mildewed straw. His sides are bruised but not broken and he’s only got a small cut above his eye. The goose egg on the back of his head throbs in the near silence –a ceiling vent slowly whirring, the hum of electricity, the dim flicker of a light bulb about to call it quits…

Peter grunts pulling himself closer to a sitting position, the cage isn’t tall enough to properly sit up –but the bars are wide enough that if he were a spider he could get through. The electric hum tells him that if he even thinks of touching those bars – or going near them –he’ll regret it. 

“Okay...okay,” Peter mumbles weakly to himself, “Just gotta figure how to reroute the electricity -,” 

And that’s when he hears it. 

The low and rumbling growl from the cage propped right next to his. In the dimness Peter can make out the glint of eyes, the shine off of metal and the smell of oily, unwashed fur. 

“Hey -,” Peter timidly waves, “You been here long-?” 

The Wolf lunges for the bars, jamming his snout through the gaps. Magic crackles, electricity sparks but the Wolf’s snapping, spitting jaws don’t quit; claws raking the mucky straw, gouging the floor of the cell. 

Peter yelps, shoving himself backwards into his own bars earning a sharp shock of his own. The stink of the beast trying to get in and gut him is pungent. Around them the cries and shivers of other beings in cages of their own –the fear stink rises as the Wolf’s jaws foam and snap and are shocked again and again.

Boots hammer against the cement floor; shouting voices, the stench of old magic. 

“Vinculum!” The man’s voice is deep and echoes through dim cavern. The Wolf jolts, fights it, legs peddling –scraping –the floor, jaws now slackening still mouthing air. 

“Vinculum.” A second voice joins in, younger, a little more cautious sounding, “Somnus.” 

And maybe the young voice isn’t as restrained because his spell winds its way through the air making Peter’s body heavy, his mind a fog as all the worry and anxiety and fear is carried downstream. The Spider fights to keep his eyes open, but the stink of the spell is like overly sweet candy. 

Peter catches the eye of the Wolf; his reddened eyes glinting in the low light all glassy and heavy and lost as hands pry his muzzle back through the bars and into his own musty cage. 

>>>\------------------------>

Tony Stark’s labs are sprawling –an entire floor of screens and lab benches and spare parts. Phil’s never seen anything like it and he wonders what a Vampire was possibly making in a lab. The cold in him is no longer just in him, but in the air; in the building. 

A figure turns, green eyes, raven black hair and the smile of someone who just got his way slithering across his pale, lean face. The magic coming off him is old and chaotic. In his slender hand is a blue cube; shiny and bright, plucked free from its stand. Screens and alarms ring out flashing flat-lining energy readings. 

“Hey –hands off!” Tony shouts. 

Phil doesn’t bother waiting. The cold in him is a living thing in his ribs as he draws his gun; two rounds pop sharp staccatos in the midst of blaring alarms. The first goes a little wide, Phil trying hard not to let his fiercely shivering body throw his aim. His second shot slams into the slender being’s shoulder, blood red and sharp wetting the black and green robes. A snarl bites from the intruder –less of any real pain and more along the lines of sheer annoyance that Phil had shot him.  
But instead of retaliating the man –was he a man at all, Phil wonders – his face spreads into a grin, “Cold?” He asks –and Phil’s eyes widen. He’s heard that voice before. But the man turns, his trinket in hand as though to leave. 

Tony and Steve and Sam charge, all claws and fangs; they aren’t intent on letting the intruder get away. But the figure before them cackles, dissolving into big black birds; shrieking beaks and flapping wings. They fly at the Wolves, at the Vampire, at Natasha and Clint and Phil. 

Steve and Sam in their fur snap and snarl, catching feathered bodies in their teeth and tasting blood. Steve shakes one from his back, whirling to help Sam who has three on his tail. 

Natasha’s glamour long forgotten, she pierces a bird on one of her eight legs, throwing its blood-wet body to the lab floor.

“Come.” One of the ravens caws from its blackened throat as it flies past Phil, “Come.” The cold in him is nearly unbearable, the curse progressing as dark spots dance over his vision. Gasping, Coulson manages to gather himself and squeeze off another bullet; the bird it hits squawks and bursts into a feathered mess on the floor. 

“You’ve been,” Clint shouts; his own glamour dropping, a bow in hand, “Thunderstruck!” And he fires into the air. The arrow explodes and from it forked lightning streaks through the lab, striking the remaining flock of birds. Tony yelps and leaps aside as a few stray bolts fly off around them. The smell of charred feathers and cooked meat fill the air. Steve and Sam growl, shaking feathers and blood from their muzzles. 

With the birds gone, only the dying echo of laughter remains. 

“You better not have cooked any of my work, bird-brain.” Tony accuses, then, “JARVIS –tell me our curious camper is still in the building.” Tony’s voice is strained, his eyes red and worried. 

"I’m afraid not, Sir."

Phil’s vision swims. The man had that same voice ---‘You have heart’ ---it rings in his head, the knot of scars on his chest where the knife went in scream. The cold rings fierce in his chest, his arm shaking so badly he’ll drop his gun if his frozen fingers weren’t stiff on the weapon. 

The building itself seems to shudder. 

“What was that, Stark?” Natasha wants the truth. Her face split into fangs, her eyes like black gems –all staring strongly. 

“The Tesseract.” Tony says, sounding tired, “In small words it distorts space and creates portals –JARVIS, bring up the schematics.” 

"Yes, Sir" And the room is dimmed only to be relit by blue lights and screens, each showing that same blue cube and lines of math and calculations. Schematics and ideas unfold with the cube at their heart. 

“If I can harness the Tesseract’s power over space –physical space –I could make a system that could keep Night Folk out of reach of HYDRA –safe doorways, safe pathways at a word ----no more dead kids! And I am this close-,” 

“You were this close.” Clint amends –nodding to the empty stand, “Know anyone who would want the Tesseract?” 

Tony scoffs and flails as though this should be obvious, “Anyone! Do you know how powerful that cube is? The energy readings off this thing –immense! Unparalleled –and I’ve been on this earth long enough to say I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

“And now someone else has the Tesseract.” Steve sums up. 

Coulson’s breath is a fog in the warm room, his legs lock up like he’s walked hours through deep snow. The man who stabbed him –cursed him –was just here. He was here. The voices around him sound so far away in the snow. 

Phil is so cold.

“Coulson?” Natasha’s voice is a worry. 

Clint turns on his heal, his feathers fluffing at the note in the Widow’s voice. Barton’s sharp eyes can see the blue tinging Phil’s lips, the shivers wracking his body –he’s moving, catching Phil before he can hit the ground. He’s freezing. 

“Coulson?” Clint’s voice is tight, “Phil –look at me.” He pleads, moving the human closer to his chest, his warmth; the café owners wings drape over them both to seal some of that heat in. Carefully he pries the gun free from the officer’s cold-stiff hand. 

“C-Clint.” Phil’s voice jumps as his teeth clack, his eyes going heavy and far away.

“No –come on, it’s gonna be okay, Phil. It’s gonna be fine. You’re fine.” The Hawk cups his lover’s face gently, licking his lips to sing “Hot blooded, check it and see-,” 

But nothing. 

“Got a fever----damn it, Phil, don’t do this.” The Wolves and the Vampire keep a respectful distance as Clint squeezes his eyes shut. Natasha’s hand on his shoulder causes him to clutch Phil’s body that much closer, his free hand, clawed and rough, trying to rub some warmth back into the man. 

“My love, my love, my love. He keeps me warm.” Clint’s song is a little wobbly but the warmth that bursts forth is pure comfort –the air around the lab brightens. “He keeps me warm, he keeps me warm.” 

And in his arms the frost begins to ebb away. A released gasp hitches out of the Hawk’s throat and he gathers Coulson’s limp body to him fiercely, a hand supporting the back of his head another rubbing up and down his back massaging the heat spell into his skin. 

“What’s your middle name, do you hate your job, do you fall in love too easily?” Clint sings, heartened by the success, “What’s your favorite word, do you like kissing boys, can I call you baby?” 

The lab is now a warm summer day; Phil’s lips have regained their colour, his body returning to a normal temperature. He’s still unconscious but at least Clint’s sure it’s a peaceful sleep. His wings tighten around the officer, protecting, containing the heat, shielding him from the eyes of the other Night Folk. 

“That’s some pretty heavy stuff.” Tony, features back to a more human guise, finally speaks up, “Come on –you don’t want to spend the rest of the night on your ass in my lab.” 

Turns out Tony Stark’s tower has floors filled with empty beds. Beds so big Clint’s sure they were made for orgies the likes of Courts in their bloody heydays. A Vampire –a woman –with soft red hair and a look on her face that says while Tony Stark runs this Court she very much runs Tony Stark meets them at the elevator. 

“I heard we had a security breach. The party’s been cut off –everyone’s gone home.” Her heals click on the expensive tiles as Tony leads them towards the bedroom, “Is everything okay –Tony please tell me this human wasn’t hurt at the party.” 

“Nope.” Stark says, “Things got complicated, Pep. Barton explained in the elevator, the human’s fine for now, just needs to sleep it off.” 

“That curse I can smell in his veins isn’t just going to be ‘slept off’, Tony.” She lifts an eyebrow like she’s dealt with Stark’s remedies before. “And the Wolves?” Pepper eyes Steve and Sam. 

“They came with Barton. If they get fur on anything send them the dry cleaning bill.” Steve lets out a grr at Tony but it’s not barbed at all so Stark ignores it. 

Clint carries Phil; arm tucked under the man’s knees, a strong arm around his shoulders, holding him close to his chest. The Hawk is hyper aware of all the other Night Folk in the room –around Phil when he’s like this -, but when he sees the bed Clint tries to shake it off. Natasha moves ahead, pulling back expensive sheets to reveal the crisp white bedspread. 

“I know you’re wound up right now,” She says softly, the Sidhe-shifter glancing at her, his grip on Phil tightening, “But this will go a lot easier with help.”  
And he knows that’s true. So Clint allows Natasha to help get Phil out of his jacket and shoes. Clint climbs into bed with Phil as Tony and Natasha make for the door. 

“JARVIS, bring the temp up on this floor –I want to know the minute Officer gets a chill.” Tony says. 

"Yes, Sir." JARVIS’s polite voice is smooth. 

Both the Wolves wait a beat before hopping up onto the bed to settle by Coulson’s side, their fur coats better than any blanket. Clint’s sharp eyes narrow and he wants badly to shoo the furballs away; to have Coulson to himself but nobody makes better radiators than Wolves –all that shifting and high metabolism means they run hot. 

In the quite, Clint leans against the massive headboard and holds Phil against him; wings loosely folded around them, one clawed hand rubs slowly up and down the broad expanse of the officer’s back. 

In Clint’s head is the whirling concern for Phil, the curiousness of Tony’s Tesseract and the thief who had stolen it. Strange had mentioned a break-in but that his thief had left empty handed. So odd for a house full to the brim with magic artifacts…unless the thief didn’t find what they were looking for. 

And in Stark’s lab he had. 

But what for? 

And never mind that; time’s running out on this curse and he needs a name. Night folk are going missing and he needs to know if the Hunters are really on a spree –and why now. 

And Phil. 

Phil here in his arms finally warm. 

His blue-tinged lips and stiff fingers had scared him maybe even worse than the Wolves…

“I’m not going to let you go like that, Coulson.” Barton speaks quietly into the room, his lips brushing Phil’s brow. Slowly he disentangles himself from the sleepy human and lays him down gently against the pillows and blankets. Both Wolves look up as though to ask where Clint could be going. 

“Keep him warm for me. I’ll be back soon.” He says. 

Tony and Pepper are speaking quietly to Natasha in the common area outside the bedroom when Clint comes out. 

“Got somewhere to be?” Tony asks. 

“I gotta run. Times running out on this curse and I need to get Phil help.” He explains. 

“You really walking out on us here, birdy?” Tony asks. 

“I’m really not.” Clint assures, “I’ll be back once I talk to some folks about a name –I promise.” And he’s shifting; body twisting, feathers sprouting from skin. 

“JARVIS –widows.” Tony calls.

"The ones down the hall, Sir?"

“Those’re the ones, J.” The Vampire affirms as Barton’s wings propel him into the air and out of Stark Tower.

“We might have another emergency.” Natasha’s voice brings the Vampires back, “I haven’t heard from Peter in hours.”


	11. 3 Al Purdy's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to aim for every other week to update, life is busy but I will aim to have chapters up as I can.

Five years ago the Treaty Judges were twenty –an even split of humans and Night Folk –and together they kept the balance because no one wanted the Dark Times to return. For the Judges the idea of imbalance wasn’t merely frightening, it terrified them. So to keep the chaos at bay they sat in judgement of humans and Night Folk alike. All the verses of the Treaty were on their tongues, their word was final. Their word was law. 

In some ways it was a simple job; if a Vampire hunted out of season, if a Sorcerer raised the dead, if a Leprechaun sold contraband from their carts, if a Jabberwock or a Chupacabra or a Wendigo showed their face in town they were handed to the humans –the Hunters –for justice. 

But if a Hunter disrespected Pack Land treaties, if they killed a Hob, a Naga, an Abada, arrested a Witch without cause, if they took a Selkie’s coat or chopped down a Nymph’s tree they were handed to the offending species for punishment which if T’challa had been honest five years ago, were often far more creative. 

Once upon a time it was the Witches punishments that he had found the most amusing. Due to the Coven’s general agreement of ‘do no harm’, they often resorted to turning their prisoner into some useful animal. A horse to pull carts, a pony for the children to care for and ride, a sheep to sheer wool from or a dog to be just smart and loyal enough to become a service animal. The offender would remember nothing of their old life and no one from their old life would remember them. Instead they would spend the rest of their lives giving back. Mending pain by bringing joy, T’challa had supposed –a life of servitude.

T’challa supposed this was real penance –and the Witches made sure the animals were treated well. It was all under the eye of the Mother, after all. 

Of course his people’s punishments were a swift death; panther claws to tear out a still-beating heart. Fitting as T’challa, Black Panther; inheritor of the blessings of Bast, was King of the Dead so any human that died was only added to his own army. 

But all this was five years ago. Before twenty became six. 

The Coup had happened suddenly, though T’challa supposes looking back he had sensed something. There had been   
unease in the air that afternoon when the Judges had gathered. But it was only when the first throat was slit that he saw things for what they were. 

When his fellow Judge and human friend Zuri had been killed in front of him at the Judges table he knew. When the hexed knife had slid into his gut, cutting him off from the dead he commanded or the Panther in him, he knew. When his claws had cut through the bellies of two young Hunters he knew. 

And when his fellow Treaty Judge, The Ancient One, had opened up the Conjuror’s Mirror and shoved his heavy, bleeding body through before her head was taken clean off ---in his last moments of wakefulness he’d known.

“Hail Hydra.” It was the last words he heard as the Mirror closed separating him from the battle and the death of his friends. 

But all this was five years ago. 

The city park was a large sprawling swath that sat in the center of town. Tall trees, fountains and even a pond near the center. Clint had often elected to stay away from the park because of who lived there –and it wasn’t the troll that hung out under one of the stone bridges (he was actually quite nice if a little dull-witted). 

The Fae make their homes in the Summerlands; an enchanted forever of warm nights and impossibilities. It was an upside-down place –wonderful beyond belief and terrifying if one looked too closely. The Sidhe, the Hob, the Brownies, Pixies, Cait Sidhe, the Tuatha de Danann…all of them were at home in the Summerlands. All ruled by a childish logic and two Queens; Winter and Summer. Both –Clint had heard over a pint with an old Brownie –were bitches, but Winter was less subtle about it. 

They were old –Summer and Winter; born with the first baby’s laugh, they’d skipped across that first evening and been up to no good ever since. 

Clint’s under no illusion that a mutt like him will be welcomed –he’s only part Sidhe and pure blood means a lot to the Fae. Even their Changelings are thinly tolerated. He half expects to be tossed out on his ass, but Phil needs a name.   
And Clint’s out of options. 

Clint’s Hawk wings sail him over the park entrance and he makes for some large standing stones near the pond. He makes sure to keep an eye on the moon and an ear open. It’s said on deep fall nights when the moon was in its full-bellied grace, Mad Adam led his Wild Hunt from the gates of the Summerlands across the park; at dusk, if you listened very carefully, you could hear the first dogs baying, waiting to catch a scent. 

Clint knew better to be in the park on those nights and he doesn’t want to run into Mad Adam tonight. He has it on good authority that, if caught, you’d become one of Mad Adam’s horses destined to ride the deep fall nights with him forever.  
Clint wants to tell himself it’s just a story to spook young Night Folk with, but he knows too well that stories are the Fae’s bread and butter; the little jingles children sing –‘don’t step on the crack or you’ll break your mother’s back’ –were hard truths in the Summerlands and if you weren’t careful they could be in the mortal world too. 

Clint does a few quick circles before landing amongst some scrub to change –he’ll need to be on two legs to do this. It always feels weird when his feathers melt away to skin; when his beak softens and his guts rearrange themselves, but he manages it quickly enough. 

The cool night air is dry, the park empty. He has time. 

Clint clears his throat and hums a moment to get in tune –while a mutt like him uses music to get his magic off the ground, the Fae –the purebloods anyhow –prefer poetry or nursery rhymes –the real hard stuff. 

“Between the in, between the out,” Clint follows the steps Kate had told him about. Right foot on this loose cobble stone, leap ahead to the left foot, “Between the here, between the now.”

“Between the North, between the South.” A faint hum of something old and warm rises in the air with the smell of Clint’s magic. Clint runs his fingers against the bark of the tallest maple tree as he circles it three times, “Between the West, between the East.” Faint lights blink into life; they bob and dip enchantingly along as Clint follows the steps. To anyone’s eye he must look like he’s lost his mind, but the keys to the Sumemrlands aren’t ordinary ones. 

“Between the time, between the space,” He makes sure to say it clearly, as he weaves his way towards the pond. The fairy lights around him have grown casting the dark park into a soft glow. “Neither quiet nor calm,” 

Finally Clint reaches the lip of the water where the stones stand, his hand presses to the rock as interlocking knot patterns etch themselves across the surface, “I am between.” 

And out on the water, just steps from the shore where Clint’s standing, the air ripples gently. Clint steps out onto the water and into the distortion. Into the Summerlands.

<\------------------------------------<<<<

Peter groans as he feels gloved hands grabbing at his arms, a spelled collar put around his neck. This wasn’t his house or his bed. The hazy memory of the cage swims back up as the Spider’s feet scuff and rag against the cold concrete. He tries to speak up some complaint –maybe just fire more minutes to sleep off the spell he’d been hit with? –but it comes out a garbled mess instead. 

There’s a dim hallway, dank and damp –a drain in the floor, orange-yellow lights buzzing overhead thick with flies and a moth or two. Peter can hear the distant sounds of chanting, of yelling, of human voices calling out and as his head lolls back he tastes the staleness of his mouth and the residue of the spell on his lips. 

“Guys -,guys, I’m gonna be late for sociology.” He screws his eyes shut as they pass under another orange-yellow light. One of the men holding him snorts derisively. “I’m serious -, they’re gonna call May and tell her I missed class-,”

The doorway ahead has light streaming in from below it, the taste in the air is sharp with sweat and anxiety and something else –Peter starts to fight them, trying to get his feet under him, get those extra limbs of his to move the way he wants but it’s just not coming. 

The first man kicks the door open. The flash of stadium light is blinding to all of Peter’s eight eyes and he grimaces against the flood of sound and smell and sight that pours over him as those gloved, rough hands toss him to the ground. 

Wet cement ground. 

Red, wet cement ground. 

Peter’s spider senses are ringing like a gong; this is not safe. He needs to get out of here. 

The round room is as big around as Peter’s school gym, chain fencing circles the perimeter high covered in wards and hexes that he bets are there to keep him in and the sea of darkened faces protected. A knife appears at his back and those gruff hands are grabbing, pulling, choking at his collar. Freed, Peter gasps a breath or two, his own hands rubbing at the skin there –the door behind him closes and he’s alone in the stadium. The smell in the air is blood; the drain in the center of the room is dripping. 

“Okay –I saw this movie once –,” He says under the roar of the crowd. A can of beer hit the fence sending sparks and zaps of magic into the air. 

The door on the other side of the room is opens roughly and a shirtless man a head or two taller than Peter is pushed through. He’s rough in the face with stubble, rough in the face from pain. The man’s eyes are blank with a stare that looks past Peter and into the wall behind him and probably even beyond that. The arm on his left side is metal and lace with runes –heavy scarring touching the skin around it. His long brown hair stringy with sweat; he stinks. 

Peter remembers that stink. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” A voice booms out over the crowd making Peter jump and look around, away from the man. The man who doesn’t move, shoulders slumped, eyes staring holes. “Our White Wolf is ready to take on another contestant!” 

The crowd roars and boos and whistles. 

“I know, I know,” The MC levels with a giddy tone, over embellished and showy as though Peter and the emotionless man aren’t standing in a cement arena wet with blood, “last round didn’t last as long as you wanted –but we know tonight is gonna give us a real show! Who’s here to see some freaks fight?!” 

The Hunter steps up, that dead-eyed octopus tattoo across his forehead as he speaks his spell into the microphone. 

“Longing,” 

The man jolts like he’s been electrocuted. A quick jab with a cattle prod. Peter’s spider senses hit the roof. Something about this just went from bad to worse. 

“Rusted.”

He sways a little, looks like he’s trying to fight the spell off. 

“Furnace.” 

And he’s losing. The unkempt man doubles over, hands digging into his scalp as he moans. 

“Hey –come on, can’t you see you’re hurting him?” Peter hollers, taking half a step forward towards the man, worried and afraid. 

“Daybreak.” 

The noise that rises is impossibly louder; Peter’s eyes darting from his arena-mate to the Hunter and the crowd as it jeers. The thing that gets the Spider’s attention back is a new taste in the air --something above the blood and sweat and stench   
of magic. 

Wolf.

“Seventeen.” The deep voice speaks out and the man before him lurches, falling to his knees as he screams. Fur has started to sprout from his skin. 

“Benign.” 

The spell is forcing a change, taking over the White Wolf’s body and mind. Peter hears bones crack and guts shuffle. The man’s muzzle elongates and the glint of wickedly sharp teeth catch the light. 

“Nine.”

“Come on, mister, you can fight this-,” Peter’s hands are up, outstretched to reassure, to comfort, to beg him to break out of it, but it’s not happening. 

“Homecoming.” The Hunter reads off the spell. 

The man’s on all fours now; that metal arm having changed with him –hand for paw - the red star rune on it still glowing hot. His screams are growls and heavy panting; his matted fur smells like dirty dog. The Wolf isn’t white at all, but a deep brown like the man’s greasy hair. 

“One.”

The glint of red eyes and Peter takes a few shuffling steps back, arms still up, “Please, don’t do this.” He can’t help sounding a little strained. The blood on the floor is no longer a mystery. The Hunters have been fighting Night Folk down here –making the Wolf fight and kill… for sport. 

“Freight Car.”

And silence falls; a stillness as they wait. 

The Wolf’s sides are heaving but when he moves, slowly, in a small arc like he’s sizing Peter up. It’s fast and precise when the White Wolf strikes. Peter leaps, flipping over the back of the White Wolf. He lands, whirls and ducks into a tumble as the Wolf strikes out again. 

The crowd is alive with cheers and roars as Peter scuttles on eight limbs this way and that keeping just ahead of the mad Wolf out for blood. A quick shot of spider silk tangles up his attacker’s feet snagging a paw to the floor and causing the Night Folk to slam muzzle-first into the cement.

“Come on, mister –I don’t want to fight you.” Parker calls moving slowly on his eight legs, “We can get out of here –I’ll call Natasha -,” 

But the Night Folk has already torn through the webbing and is a flash of teeth and claws that catch Peter about the leg badly. The crowd howls and chants ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ as Peter punches the Wolf in the head to throw him off –one good hard hit and his attacker yelps, Peter swinging himself up and onto the White Wolf’s back. His extra legs jabbing the Wolf in his sides, arms wrapped around his neck in a chokehold. He’s trying hard to web up his opponent but it’s not going quite to plan.

“Don’t wanna do this.” He grunts out, as he pulls on the tight webbing around the prosthetic leg and pulling outward. Hard.   
The animal below him screams; wriggling and roaring, spit frothing at his mouth. The Wolf bucks furiously, sending Parker flying and hitting the electric fence. The shock a sharp bite through his back and extra legs. The ground is of small comfort as the world spins around him –the announcer hollering something, the crowd chanting, the Wolf pacing. Waiting. Moving.

His attacker pounces, claws raking the Spider’s chest and he has just the time to get his feet under White Wolf’s belly and to kick –all that momentum shoving the Night Folk back across the arena. It takes them both a minute to stager to their feet.   
White Wolf won’t stop –he can’t. And Peter’s leg is bleeding badly. He needs this to be over. 

Peter fires shots of webbing, even as the Wolf hurtles towards him. With silk snarling his jaws shut Parker charges, shoving them both into the electric fence. The white hot electric smell of burning fur fills his nose, his breath stolen away and then they’re on the floor. 

He can make out the booing of the crowd, the jeering, the announcer saying this was an unexpected outcome but maybe they could place their bets for round two ---whenever that might be. 

Peter’s not really listening. He’s watching a single threat of silk catching the light as a small, brown spider –no bigger than the head of a pin –glide down from the dark ceiling. There’s blood in his mouth when he smiles –must have bit his lip when he tackled the Wolf. 

“Hey…tell Ta’sha.” He manages to get out –his eight eyes blearily peering up at this bit of hope before the Hunters come and drag him bleeding from the ring. 

<\----------------------------------<<<<<

There’s a thing about the Summerlands: it’s an obtuse place as beautiful as anything you can imagine, and as disjointed as a dream. Clint can’t remember the last time he was here but the warm night breeze that brushes his face feels a little like home nonetheless. Those flickering fairy lights hover around him and the tall grass he’s stepped out into. 

The colours here are more vibrant, even in the dark, the warm air a little richer. He doesn’t have to think about where he needs to go to find someone in charge around here –the Summerlands and its citizens often give their visitors exactly what they’re looking for –if for a price. 

Clint shakes off that feeling of familiarity –and his glamour -and thinks about what he wants; the breeze delivering soft sounds of distant music and the sweet smell of ripe cherries. Someone somewhere was holding a party. 

The tall grass parts into a path of warn, warm stones, mushrooms and dandelions –some in full bloom, some already to seed –peeking up between the rocks. The soft dandelion fluff drifts past Clint as he walks towards the merriment. 

“Going somewhere?” Child-like voices whisper from the grasses around him, “Who are you looking for?” “Come play with us.” He never sees their faces but he feels their eyes and to Clint it’s their young voices that he finds unnerving. Their soft giggles dancing closer and further away as he walks on. 

The sweetest faces in the Sumemrlands often hid the sharpest teeth. 

He knows he’s getting close when lanterns –glass with bright beeswax candles inside them –walk out to meet him. Tall and lean, short and round, they strut and hobble and lurch on legs of wood as though their holders had come to life and gone out to fetch him. 

“Evening, fellas,” Clint mutters. A few of the lanterns bob at him dopily, wax dripping down the candles and into the glass. “Wouldn’t mind telling me if this is Summer’s party?” 

The lanterns say nothing, naturally, pausing only briefly before turning back to guide Clint in to the festivities ahead. Barton figures if it was Winter the welcome wagon would have looked much less kind. 

The standing stone circle is ringed with colourful mushrooms; fungus latching onto the rocks etched deep with runes that glowed magic of their own. The soft grass of the clearing tramped down and covered with soft moss. The fairy lights sway and dance just overhead making the ring look bright and welcoming as a backyard party. 

No tables for the bowls overflowing with fresh fruit and candied nuts, or the cups of wine –the Fae dance around them, big and small, horns and feathers and fair faces frozen in youth ----but with eyes that Clint can’t quite meet. 

For the world’s more full of weeping –Clint thinks to himself. 

At the head of the party is a band of humans –actual humans –fiddles and flutes and guitars. Their playing is flawless, their music full of life even as their bodies…don’t look quite right; ribs clearly visible through their light shirts –faces gaunt.   
Clint eyes them as a few of the fair folk eye him. Some stop their dancing to get a good look at the mutt who had stumbled into their party. Some gawk, others look away fast like they’ve caught a glimpse of something hideous. The humans never falter in their performance as it winds higher and higher into a crescendo, but the party assuredly stutters. 

And then the musicians are gasping, veins popping, eyes rolling back in their heads; their music reaches the end but still sounds inhumanly perfect. Flawless as the people behind it collapse, writhing, and die. Quiet falls over the party.

“They said they would die to play this well, and now they have.” A voice soft and gentle and female rings out; the party-goers lift their heads away from Clint and towards the lanky woman-like creature seated amongst a throne of flowers and ivy and tree roots. She herself appears to mostly be flowers; skin a pale blue hue like that of the little forget-me-nots that ring her dress. Her feet are soft and bare as she stands up from her throne. 

Clint’s sure this is not Titania –the Summer Queen, nor Mab who rules Winter. Likely a minor Queen –but a Sidhe far higher than Clint, for sure.

“Can We help you, mutt?” The Sidhe asks.

“I’m looking for a name.” He’s straight to the point. 

The fair folk eye him up and down. “A mutt.” The whisper comes up through the crowd. 

“The only name I have for you is Ours, mutt. We am Oona, of Summer’s throne. But I’m sure you know you’re not welcome here in the Summerlands –dirtying up Our party.” The Queen’s voice is like a whisper of wind through the grass, not yet sharp but Clint’s knows it has the power to get there –would likely get there with the offer Clint has. 

“Give me the name of the one who cast this curse,” He pulls Phil’s badge from his pocket, still cold from the ice, and holds it up to Oona and her party, “And I’ll leave. Otherwise I’m here to stay.” 

It was a childish gambit and one Clint hadn’t counted on it working –that would be too easy. 

Oona’s eyes go mean and dark like a thunderstorm rolling in over a field. “My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled.” The Fae Queen recites old words as the earth beneath them sprouts aspen roots that claw and catch and tie Clint to the spot. The clearing smells of pungent magic and the Hawk beats his wings once, twice, struggling before admitting that he was caught. 

“You dirty thing barely fit to step into the Summerlands –you think you can bargain with Us!” Oona’s voice is a whip now, her face a thing of indignant rage.

“Give me the name I need and I’ll go.” Clint assures, body straining against the roots and bark scraping his skin.

“I’d have more than your absence, ugly bird.” She sneers, the Sidhe at her back look more menacing now than they had as lithe dancers, their party forgotten. 

But what did Clint have to give her? Nothing? Everything? 

More likely than he thinks; in the Summerlands it’s always the littlest things, the stuff it never crossed your mind to lose that turns out to be the most important –the thing you wanted to give up least. 

He could offer Oona memories, those can be a hot commodity –but the only ones that come to Clint now are ones of Phil and of the café, Kate and Wanda and Natasha –and he’d be lost without those. 

“Perhaps those eyes of yours –Hawk-touched eyes would make a lovely necklace –We could wear them and see every day of your dirty little life outside the Summerlands.” She sneers; the fragrant scent of flowers on her seems more volatile and pungent than before. 

“I’ll give you three Al Purdy’s” Clint chokes out, the idea coming to him in a flash. Oona was a being of the Summerlands; long had it been since she set foot in the mortal realm –and since then lots of new poets had lived, died, lived again in books and songs and anything the Fae would love to turn to magic. 

Poetry enough to give her new words –and new power. 

Clint licks his dry lips hastily; Titania and Mab might –or hells, any other Fae Queen –might see it as a power play, might think Clint was swaying his allegiance towards Summer’s throne (or just Oona’s and that might be even scarier) but this was for Phil. 

He needs that name. 

The Queen looked dubious for a moment, “What is an ‘Al Perdy’?” And Clint knows she can’t lie –she’s not heard of Al Purdy before. He’s got her.

“A human poet –‘We chanted a spell of names and we said mountain be our friend and we said river, guard us from enemies –,’.” Clint recites from a book he’d snagged once from a small town library. He’d never given it back and it’s still somewhere in his apartment –and he still owes that small town library twenty five dollars. 

But the look on the Fae Queen’s face is worth far more than twenty five dollars. Might even be worth a name. 

“Three Al Purdy’s …for one name.” Oona’s voice is a question as she lays out the terms. 

“I will give you three Al Purdy’s once you give me the name of the being who cast this curse.” The Fae around Oona scuttle close and dig through his pockets for Coulson’s badge. Some of their eyes widen and go round at its shininess, the glint of gold off the floating fairy lights. 

They might have even kept that for the name but Oona is picky. She eyes the badge, sniffs the air to scent the magic.   
“It’s a deal. We will give you a name of the one who lay this curse then immediately after you have your name you will give Us three Al Purdy’s.” 

It crosses Clint’s mind to lie –he can, he can say yes, cross his fingers, take his name and be gone…but Oona would kill him. Words are the most powerful thing for the Fae –your word is binding, your promise law –don’t step on the cracks or you’ll break your mother’s back -. She’d have her Fae hunt him down in the mortal realm –in any realm –and turn him into something unspeakable or worse…and Clint doesn’t have time for it. 

“Yeah –we have a deal.” Clint says and the pact is made. 

Oona raises spindly fingers to the cold badge her party-goers lift up and speaks in a language Clint’s never heard of, the words beyond him. Oona’s eyes glaze over, the smell of spring-time flowers and the scent of melting snow wafts into the air. The Fae around her grow wide-eyed and still as she conducts her magic in pure poetry. 

The badge shivers, a frost grows on it, licking at the Sidhe’s hands. Barton’s worried there will be a repeat of the Sorcerer’s sanctum –all ice and winter and near-death. But the Fae around Oona seem to be keeping that at bay and Oona herself isn’t trying to lift the spell, just ask enough right questions until she gets an answer. 

Finally her eyes drift back to Clint, “The name you want is Loki -son of Laufay.” Oona says, “That is my half of our bargain.”   
Clint knows better than to press for more. A name was all he asked for, a name is all he’ll get. 

“Now you, mutt. Three Al Purdy’s.” 

Clint nods, taking back the badge and quickly thinking of which poems to give. He whispers them to Oona quietly in the   
fairy ring as the poems are only for her and not the party-goers and when she leans away the Fae Queen looks pleased. 

“A fine trade.” She nods, the Sidhe nod about her.

The doorknob seemed to materialize, gold and glinting in the light, as if from nowhere but Clint knew better. The door that Oona opened in the air overlooked the banks of the water in the grey-pink haze of a molting dawn sky and Clint knew –with sudden horror in his chest –what was coming. 

The hands that pushed him, throw him, toss him out into the mortal realm were cold but not as cold as the water from the shallows of the pond or Phil Coulson’s frozen badge in his hand. 

“Wait-!” Clint sputters, coughing muddy water, the pain already flashing through him as the first sun’s rays hit him, “You can’t-,” 

“’It came to me in the tavern that poems will not really buy beer or flowers or a goddam thing,’” Oona spits Al Purdy’s liens out, mocking Barton with the poems he’d just given, “’And I was sad, for I am a sensitive man.’” 

Oona’s voice is a quiet echo behind him. The door to the Summerlands closes. Clint’s body spasms in pain landing him face down in the water on the shore of the pond; struggling against the pain and the water and no glamour on in the morning-,

Hands grab him. Rough hands. One like a hot brand as it touches his exposed arm –iron touched. The world around him is going grey, the sun behind him seems to lose its colour as Clint sputters and shouts “No –no, no, no!”–body hurting, burning, gasping---,

“Second Division,” The Hunters who have him by the arm and the scruff of his shirt snap –their voices rough and whip-like, “You’re under arrest for exposure.”


	12. Leave the World Outside

Clint’s face hurts where one of the Second Division Hunter had punched him. He’d been wearing an iron-plated ring so the cut on the bridge of Clint’s nose is ugly and hot. He’s counted his hurts; the ribs where they kicked him, his wrists where the cuffs –magic of course –had bit into his skin ---tightened just a little too tight. 

The taste of mud and grass as one of the Hunters pressed a boot to the back of his head while he was cuffed –all the while the sun behind them rose looking like the eye of a god. 

He’d been shaking and screaming the whole way because of the dawn, which had meant the Hunters had more or less dragged him through the grey world they’d made to the precinct. The world around them slow and thick and colourless.   
Everything from the birds in the air to the delivery trucks passed like they were moving through thick molasses. 

He could have screamed all he wanted no one would have heard. 

He could have fought all he wanted and no one would have come. 

The gloom that has risen around them, moving with them is too tight a spell. The Hunters cast it well. Clint hadn’t had it in him to look for the HYDRA tattoo on any of them –hells he didn’t remember half the trip anyhow, all pain and foggy from the dawn. The café owner hadn’t known if he was going to even wake up from this –or if he was about to be disappeared and Phil and Natasha and Steve would be looking for his body next….

“Futz.” Clint can’t help but gasp wetly. He’s still not out of the woods, he knows that, but…not being dead is a real bonus. Of course being in a cell wasn’t really anything to cheer about. 

The dawn had just passed well enough that Clint’s regained himself, dragging himself up to sitting in what appears to be a drunk-tank cell. It’s cold. His wings brush the rough concrete and Barton longs for his nest. There’s no bed in the cell, no blankets, no windows…bars of iron with silver wards and runes all over them. Loaded for werebear –nobody was getting out of that. 

Sort of reminds Clint of being in the circus –five pennies to see. 

“You and I in a little toy shop, buy a bag of balloons with the money we’ve got,” Clint’s voice is wobbly and he can taste blood where he bit his lip as he was shoved to the ground, “Set them free at the break of dawn, ‘til one by one they were gone.” But no magic. No clear skies, no sweet straw ---and no escape. 

Figures.

“You think they didn’t bug these cells for your Karaoke magic?” Across from him is a fat, fuzzy Tanuki and a tall, lanky Necromancer –each in their own separate cells. The Tanuki scoffs, scratches his round belly and bares his teeth lazily. 

“Ain’t no use, mate. Bastards going around arresting folk,” The Necromancer spits out past the bars, his teeth crooked and stained from coffee and nicotine, the thin white t-shirt he’s in is ruby and dirt-stained “like digging up dead bodies is a crime or somethin’.” 

Clint thunks his head against the concreate floor again with a groan –too tired and sore to join in any kind of conversation. He realizes his pockets are empty; the Hunters took his wallet, any coins…and Phil’s badge. 

Great. Add that to his list of sins –no way they’re not going to notice he has a cop’s badge. 

“Hey-,” Clint calls from the floor, “you guys notice any funny tattoos on the Hunters who brought you in?”

The Tanuki, who had been busy grooming his fluffy tail, perks up and hums. 

“Can’t say as I have.” The Necromancer leans himself against the bars. “What we talkin’? Hearts with their mommies names in em’?”

“Didn’t smell ink on the two who nabbed me,” the Tanuki wrinkles his nose at the memory, “just the smell of their magic when the world went grey.”

“It’s a skull –a red one –with like tentacle arms coming out of it.” Clint eyes his two cell mates while trying to keep his voice down just in case.

“Nope. Was a little busy being arrested.” The Necromancers thin shoulders shrug lazily.   
Perhaps, Clint thinks, this might be a good thing. Maybe they won’t be disappeared and Phil and Nat won’t have to put his poster up.

That would be nice. 

It might have been hours before the thick door leading into the cellblock opens with a shrike of hinges. It’s hard to manage time here in the small cell block –especially when you’re waiting to be dragged out back and put down. But when two Hunters in long uniform dusters march down the row to Clint’s cell he’s sure his time’s come. 

“Up, Night Thing,” The one says, tapping the bars with his baton, “Someone’s here to spring you.” 

At first, as they slap some cuffs on Clint, his arms behind his back –likely tighter than they need to be - and his magic dampened, he thinks of fighting –now might be his chance to get free. It’s two Hunters, he might have decent odds. But even as they march him down the hallway –that long walk towards the front of the station he can hear Phil’s voice. 

It’s really then that Clint realises he’s not going to die today. 

“I want to see him –I want to know what he’s been charged with, and if he’d had a lawyer present or if you’ve spent all the   
damn dawn violating his rights-,” Phil’s on a good rant –like he’s dressing down some sloppy junior officer –voice tight and words clipped. He’s not yelling, really, but make no mistake this is Officer Phil Coulson and he is pissed –and you’re going to be buried in paperwork and maybe reassigned to your desk for the rest of your natural life ----if you’re lucky. 

The Hunters in the lobby glance at one another with bemusement and Clint would have told him that there are no lawyers per say for Night Folk but the thought is fleeting and instead all that comes out is,

“Phil?” Clint’s voice lifts, surprised that the man is in the small front office, standing by the desk with all the authority of a policeman glaring down the Hunter at the front desk. For a moment the elation he feels at seeing Coulson again dampens in shame. He’s still in cuffs, the Hunter’s rough hand on his shoulder leading him out....

It’s more than a little humiliating and he wishes he didn’t have to remind this competent, beautiful human that he’s dating a monster. Like a real actual monster. 

But Phil’s face only breaks into relief; a wash of softening eyes and naked happiness at seeing Clint alive and not at all dead in a ditch. Clint tries not to duck his head as the Hunter pushes him forward and Coulson moves forward, hands on Clint’s bound arms, eyes glaring holes into the human at his Hawk’s back. 

“Whatever you think he’s done I can assure you the cuffs are not necessary.” Phil’s voice brokers no argument and the Hunter behind Clint shrugs, mumbling something about it being Phil’s funeral and with a snap Clint’s hands are free. 

Phil’s gently cupping the Hawk’s cheek and eyeing the cut on his nose, the bruise blooming on the side of Clint’s forehead where he was kicked and the blood drying around his lip where he bit down in the pain. 

“I know for fact that he did not have these injuries when I saw him last –and I will be following up with your Division Chief.” Coulson says angrily. 

“Sir, the Sidhe has been charged with exposure; a very serious offence-,” The Hunter at the front desk informs. He’s looking at Phil like he’s some sort of traitor for the obvious care for a Night Thing –a monster. This isn’t Beauty and the Beast, the people here aren’t expecting Clint to become a real boy because Phil likes him…it just makes Phil a freak by extension. 

Clint thinks for a moment of protecting Phil from that look he’s getting; keeping him at arm’s length –at least here in the Division office. They’ll always see Clint as a monster, no reason for them to scorn Phil. But then he remembers the bite of iron burn on his nose and he wants to throw their affections back in the Hunter’s faces. 

Who wants to be a ‘real boy’ by their standards anyway? 

“And I’m sure if you look at his record you will see that it’s not a regular occurrence.” Phil’s voice is sharp like a whip and unaware of Clint’s internal debate. “And certainly no reason for him to be roughed up like this.” 

“Mr. Barton was resisting arrest.” The Hunter at Clint’s back assures with a glare in his eyes. 

“Don’t even try that with me.” Coulson’s voice drops even colder. Cold like the curse in his chest. Cold like a man who is moments away from violence. The office stills. 

“There are no outstanding priors so we are going to let him go with a fine and a warning.” A plastic tray of Clint’s belongings are shoved into Clint’s hands; wallet, coins and Phil’s badge. If the man sees it he doesn’t asks as Barton stuffs them all into his pockets. 

Clint has a week to pay the fine. It’s not a small amount and he’s already thinking of his rent and groceries and the fine as Phil’s hand finds the small of his back to guide him to the door. Natasha moves with them, each of her eyes narrowed and promising pain of odd kinds as they leave. 

“How did you know?” Clint asks as they get into a waiting car –Natasha driving. Already he can feel the power dampening spell lifting bit by bit. It’s midday, the sun peeking between heavy rainclouds. Somewhere off in the distance Clint can hear thunder growling.

“You’re never more than three feet away from a spider.” The Widow assures, tossing him a bandage from his nose from the glove compartment. A tiny brown and speckled spider scurries across the dashboard towards the woman soundlessly. Clint doesn’t say thank you but they both know it’s there hanging between them in the small space of the car. 

Phil clutches at Clint’s hand, eyeing his injuries again –“What’s this from?” He points at the bridge of Barton’s nose as Barton puts the bandaid on.

“Iron burn. One of the bastards was wearing a ring when he backhanded me.” Phil looks…not calm but like a mask has come over his face that is hiding real rage. 

“Clint why did you have my badge?” 

Natasha makes a point of keeping her eyes on the road. 

“The Witches needed something from you to see if they could break your curse.” It sounds a little longwinded when he says it out loud. How simple it had been when he first thought it out. 

“Of course they did.” Phil doesn’t sound angry, just…tired. Like he’s met the end of a very long day and someone told him that the microwave had exploded. “Why didn’t you ask –what is this?” Two questions collide as Phil pulls the fake badge from his pocket. 

“An acorn.” Clint replies. 

Phil just stares. He’s been attacked by a Wendigo, followed Wolves through a forest, stood up to Vampires…and yet this seems the most ridiculous thing in Phil’s life. 

“I didn’t tell you because you didn’t know about the curse then…and I was hoping I could get it cured before you found out.” And for a moment Phil feels like the idea of a cure really sinks in. Clint had been tracking a cure –perhaps this whole time –because he didn’t want Phil to worry about it. Didn’t want Phil to get his hopes up, didn’t want Phil to have to even find out about the curse at all because Clint would have taken care of it. 

“You didn’t tell me.” And that’s really Phil’s sticking point. Clint went behind his back, “I need you to be honest with me.” 

And Clint really feels that. Like a blow. 

Kate was right. He’s really great at bad decisions. 

Clint digs Phil’s badge out of his pocket and hands it back to Phil, “I’m sorry. I should have told you.” 

“And I should have told you.” Natasha steps in, “Phil, you’ve probably noticed the curse is getting worse.” 

“I had.” Phil can feel it now. The cold in his chest is stronger, it’s broader. It’s spreading. 

“It’s going to keep getting worse unless we find a cure.” She says, eyeing them through the rear-view mirror. 

“Keeps getting worse until what, Natasha?” Phil asks. The car is silent for a moment. It’s all Phil needs. 

“I see.” He says. 

“I wanted to get that cure for you so you wouldn’t have to worry about it. You shouldn’t have to worry about it –you got here by accident and you’ve been the bravest man I’ve known. Futz, Phil, you don’t owe any of us anything but you’re out here fighting Hunters and Vampires –,” 

Phil’s hearing Clint, he is, but he’s also trying to digest that this curse could kill him. A part of him knew it, he did, he’s not a fool; Phil’s passed out twice, he’s been getting colder…it’s not getting better. 

But to really face it. To really look at it. 

He almost died once; the knife in his chest almost ended things and he was sure he was over it. He was so sure he was past that. But maybe not. 

And Clint didn’t tell him. 

Natasha didn’t either, but Clint didn’t tell him. 

What would he have said –Phil wonders. How would he have snuck that in there? How do you tell someone that the curse in their ribs is freezing them to death? 

“I’m sorry, Phil.” Clint says and Phil grabs for Barton’s hand. He knows Clint is. He might be upset about the secret keeping   
but he can’t do this alone. 

“You left Stark’s to find something for me.” Phil puzzles out, “And you got caught by the Hunters this morning. Because of me.” 

“Because Oona’s a bitch.” Clint grumbles, “I’d do it again, Phil; every morning if I have to. I got a name –I know who cursed you and we’re going to fix this.” 

Phil looks at Clint. Really looks at him. “No more secrets.” 

“No more secrets.” Clint agrees, fingers tightening on Coulson’s. “You’re not going to die, Phil. We’re going to fix this.”

And Phil believes him. 

Clint’s apartment is empty –such a difference from the Widow and two Wolves. Clint’s sure that their little band will grow to include Tony and Stark seems the kind of Vampire to show up whether you invited or not. 

The place is quiet with the sunlight spilling in through the windows, the city outside the window bright in the late fall midday. Clint’s hand tightens around Phil’s just that little bit. And maybe that was it. Maybe it was the still apartment or the sunlight over the city or that Clint had stepped into his life and had been saving him ever since. 

Or maybe it was just the hand in his.

But Phil finds himself there in the empty apartment, cupping Clint’s cheek and kissing the café owner softly. He remembers his lips on Clint’s burned hand –the bandage on his nose an echo of that brief moment. He’d kissed Barton before but somehow this is new. Because Barton is kissing him back, fingers still entwined, free hand resting gently on Phil’s side. 

“I don’t want this to be because you’re scared.” Clint says quietly as they part, “Phil –futz, Phil I want this so bad you have no idea –but not if it’s just this once -, not if it’s because you don’t think you’ll get another chance.” Clint begs, his glamour fading away in the comfort of his own home.

Coulson quiets him with another kiss, deep and demanding. He’d be lying if he wasn’t trying to find some courage in the warmth of Clint’s body; his broad shoulders, his blond hair, his lips that fit so well against Phil’s. But it’s an honest kiss too.   
One that he’d been meaning to give –thinks he would have given eventually anyhow. 

“I’m not scared of you, Clint Barton.” Phil repeats gently before pushing Clint back against his own front door. Coulson has his gun-calloused hands on the Hawk’s biceps; holding him, keeping him pinned. The Hawk’s wings splay out against the wood, his feathers fanning upwards towards the ceiling in surprise. 

Phil Coulson’s lips aren’t cold –not like Clint half expected them to be, but he puts himself to the task of warming them up anyhow. Slow and deep and wet. 

Phil leans back but only just so that his lips are still brushing Clint’s as he speaks –their breath tangled together. 

“You were gone when I woke up –Natasha said you were arrested ---Clint,” And he swallowing Barton’s moan, tongue sweeping along his bottom lip, “I’d have…fuck, Clint I don’t know what I would have done if they’d -,” Something in Coulson can’t finish the sentence. It’s stuck in his throat and lodged there because Barton could have been gone for good. This person who had brought some sort of meaning back into Phil’s life behind a desk –his life after he almost died. 

Curse or not he’d have put up with it all again if it meant getting to meet Clint Barton. And wasn’t that the truth of it. 

In that moment Phil’s less afraid of dying and more afraid of leaving Clint behind. 

Not before he’d had one more kiss –Phil tells himself already angling for another. 

Clint can’t help pulling the officer into his arms and holding on tight; he doesn’t want to imagine a life without Phil either. And he won’t have to –not if he can help it. 

“Tell me you want this,” Phil begs, “tell me this isn’t some sort of magic and I’m not dreaming it -,” 

“S’not a trick –futz, Phil I want this.” Clint confirms, pulling himself back from Phil long enough to really look him in the eye, “Love spells are a pretty high offence ---and you just finished springing me, so I’d better be on my best behaviour.” He says it so seriously despite the glint in his eye that melts Phil’s insides. 

For a moment Coulson is reminded of Clint being almost disappears but he manages to hang onto the here and now. 

“I suppose you’d better be.” Phil’s voice is smooth like smoke. His fingers hook into the belt loops of Clint’s jeans, tugging him softly backwards from the door he’s pinned the Night Folk to, “Since we’re both on the same page, why don’t you take me to bed and you can show me just how good you can be?” 

A thrill chases down Clint’s spine and he can only nod and moan and move forward, following Phil’s pull. 

The nest is still rumpled from their sleep there a day ago. To Phil it feels longer than that; but as Clint’s tugging at his dress shirt and locking that Hawk’s focus onto him he’s finding the bedsheets less and less important. 

“You too.” Phil half commands half pleads as Clint’s straddling him on the nest, fussing with the button of Phil’s jeans. And for a moment Clint’s shy again –unsure about how Coulson will take to his body. 

He’s got all the human parts –a dick, an ass, pecs…but he’s also got such a mixed-bag heritage that his body also has left room for other differences. His rough hands and wings that merge at his back are one thing but –like a bird –his balls are on the inside, and like a Harpy –both destructive and tempting with breasts out and wings wide –his body is easily accommodating any lover; nipples sensitive, ass leaking. The officer said he wasn’t afraid but there’s not afraid and aroused and they are two different things. 

“Hey-,” Phil’s hand’s cupping Clint’s cheek again, “I don’t mind if you need to stop.” 

Clint can’t help but shake his head no, he wants this, his cock is hot and hard in his pants and getting them off is going to be wonderful –getting to share that hard on with Phil is going to be fantastic….but what if Phil thinks he looks…weird? 

And he does; by human standards Clint’s weird. 

“If you want,” Phil offers calmly, softly, “I can start and show you just what I like and when you get a bit less shy you can join in.” And Clint almost swallows his own tongue as Phil finishes freeing himself from his pants and underwear. 

Coulson’s cock is hard, red and straining curving up towards his belly. He’s thick and Clint can tell that he’s just a bit bigger than human averages. Clint can’t stop himself from fixing that cock with his intense gaze and wondering what it would be like to swallow it down; to feel it in him. Even if just for tonight. 

There will be other nights –Clint scolds himself. There will be. 

Phil Coulson has a soft smattering of dark hair around his chest and groin. He looks like a man who’s taken care of himself; like someone who walks and maybe works out at the gym, though a little softer in spots now that he’s on desk duty and been held up by recovery from the stabbing. Now that he really gets to look at Phil –the man lounging across his nest –he sees the sharp knot of scaring around his ribs. White and rope-like it’s a stark reminder that Coulson could have not been here.   
Clint’s hands hesitate in his reaching as Phil idly strokes himself. 

“It’s okay.” He assures. 

“Does it hurt?” Clint wonders quietly. Like if he raised his voice he might bring more attention to the old hurt. 

“Not so much.” Phil draws Clint’s bird-rough hand to his side. The nerves there were damaged –muddled even so that while he feels some of the contact it’s not what it used to be. 

“I know it’s a bit of a horror show-,” Coulson aims like he’s going to apologize and Clint hushes him with a soft kiss. 

“It’s you.” He says, “You survived.” 

Clint seems a little less nervous as he leans in to kiss the officer; the man sighing softly into his mouth as he strokes his own cock –carefully, mindful that his intention isn’t to come, but to get Barton’s head out of his own insecurities. 

And it’s working because Clint hasn’t had anyone in his nest in a long time and hasn’t much felt like helping himself since all the craziness began. But here Phil is now, stretched out in his nest, cock hard, eyes blown, cheeks ruddy and warm –for once warm –and Clint’s gotta lose these pants of his. 

“There we go. Show me, sweetheart.” Phil croons, letting the hand not currently attending his dick slip down Clint’s back and over the swell of Clint’s ass. He gives one cheek a firm squeeze and a light smack which has Clint whimpering and oh yes they will be revisiting that later. 

There will be a later –Phil assures himself. There will. 

“Just uh…just, don’t laugh or say I’m ugly or anything.” Clint grumbles shyly, slipping his underwear off and tugging his shirt free to release his wings. The glamour falls away and Barton’s more naked than he’s ever been in front of anyone in a long time. His features sharpen making him look fierce in his beauty, his eyes piercing but warm in the glow of the late afternoon.   
He has scars of his own littered down his defined chest and abs and Phil wants to learn every one. 

Of course the rest of Clint’s body is revealed too. Cock hard, red and hot with thighs dampened from clear slick. There’s just a smooth expanse of skin where his balls would have been –tempting for Phil to touch and taste. 

He won’t lie, it’s different from what he’s used to but…it’s Clint. Clint, the one who was still saving him from his life after death. He would have been beautiful no matter what. 

For a moment as Phil just looks, Clint feels the need to fill that moment, afraid this might be it. 

“They’re on the inside –ya know, like with birds –I can still come and I’m not human so I can’t catch anything ...” He’s rambling a little. 

“Will it hurt if I touch you?” Phil interrupts. 

“Huh -? No.” Barton’s sitting here with his cock slightly softening from the lack of attention but…this seems to stall him. 

“Will it bother you if I suck you?” Phil asks matter of factly, “Because I would very much like that, unless you’re opposed.” 

“No -,” 

“Or if I fuck you?” Phil keeps going and Clint’s dick is starting to get back in the game. A gush of slick hits him and oh yeah that’s a nice idea.

“Any of those are fine –Phil-,” And the officer’s lifting Clint’s chin to look at him –really look. 

“Honey, if I was going to run screaming, I’d have done it already.” Phil assures, leaning up to pull Clint in for a searing kiss, “You saved me –you’re still doing it. Fuck, Clint,” 

And Barton can’t help but fall into it. He’s moaning as his nipples brush up against Phil’s, he’s pressing into the man beneath him –their cocks lining up and thrusting together and Clint’s sure his eyes cross at how good that feels. The hot slick that wets his ass is dripping down between them bringing a sharp focus to how empty Clint is right now and how lovely it would be to have Phil’s cock in him. 

Tucking them into a roll –wings held tightly to him –Clint lets himself be splayed out under Phil. Feathers fanned about him like a halo, muscles bunched as he lifts his hips. 

“Beautiful.” Phil’s voice is reverent. 

They take time learning each other’s bodies, sucking deep kisses, light broad licks; Phil’s body is powerful over Clint’s, bracketing him in with strong arms; he may only be human but Clint couldn’t break away from him now if he wanted to.   
Coulson’s hand slips between them; touches Clint just below his cock where his balls would have been if he didn’t have that Hawk-Shifter heritage. 

“Can’t believe you’re okay with this.” Clint admits on a gasp as Phil massages the smooth, sensitive skin there. 

“I think at this point I’ve seen weirder.” Phil’s voice is a smile, his tone deep and husky with want, “And there seem to be some added bonuses.” He brings his fingers away wet with clear slick. 

“S’a Harpy thing. Supposed to be able to tempt any lover ---you know, before I tear their heads off.” It’s mostly a joke and Phil quirks an eyebrow before liking his two glistening fingers into his mouth. The taste is unique but not something Phil would say no to –certainly wouldn’t say no to eating Barton out in the near future. It’s been a while since Coulson had the occasion to do it but he thinks he still remembers a few tricks. 

“Shit, futz –that’s hot.” Clint moans, covering his face with rough palms, willing himself not to think about coming right then and there. 

“Promise you won’t rip my head off?” It’s a joke and Clint barks out a laugh. He’s sure Phil doesn’t know how serious a promise from a Sidhe –even a mutt like Clint –could be. But the look in his eyes says he can see it in Clint’s face when he finally looks Phil in the eye. 

“Phil Coulson; I will not rip your head off. I won’t hurt you, and I won’t leave until you ask me to.” And it’s a lot, it’s a lot of feelings all at once, but they’ve been through a lot all at once and Clint could have not come home today and Phil could not come home tomorrow and… 

Clint means every word. 

And Phil can see it in him. 

“Now, if you don’t get your cock in me in the next five minutes I might need to reconsider-,” But Clint’s gasping the end there as Phil’s fingers return to his hole. Slick and wet and open, Phil easily moves up to two fingers. Leaning in, the officer licks across Clint’s pecs, nipping lightly around his nipples; rolling along with the Hawk’s arching body beneath him. 

“Please –please, futz, Phil –need you!” Clint’s voice comes in pants and tremors and while Coulson could be a terrible tease he won’t do that tonight. Taking himself in hand births a hiss from his own throat. And maybe he lied about the teasing because he’s rubbing the head of his aching cock against the wet entrance to Clint’s body. The Hawk below him whines, teeth clenched, claws hooked in the bedding of the nest. If he bites his lip any harder he’ll bleed. 

“Get in me, damnit.” 

With hands cupped just under Barton’s knees, lifting him just that bit higher, Phil slowly starts to push in; hot, tight, wet and all around him as he takes it slow making room for himself in Clint’s body. 

“Breath, Clint,” Phil reminds, his own breath tight as he pushes in the next few inches slowly, slowly. 

“Ah, Phil –so futzin’ big-,” Clint gasps, wings splayed beneath him. 

Finally Phil’s fully seated and he’s the one biting his lip to hell because oh what it would be to just pound into Clint right here. He’s so hot and wet around Phil that it’s enough to drive him mad, but he needs to wait and give Clint a bit of time to adjust. 

“Tell me how it feels.” He begs from above the café owner, “Tell me how you like it.” 

“Full.” It’s all Clint can come up with –his hauntingly beautiful features open in pleasure, those bright eyes of his glassy and blown, “You’re filling me up.” 

And there’s a cheesy line in there somewhere but right now Phil can’t help but roll his hips a little, to let Clint’s body really feel him, to push the boundaries of space he’s made for himself inside the Sidhe-Shifter below him. 

Clint wails at the first thrust, breath punching out of his chest in the late afternoon sun dimly lighting the bedroom. Phil’s struck a steady pace, easy and smooth, dragging panting gasps from Clint on each return. 

“How do you like it, Clint? Can you come just like this? Just from my cock?” Phil wonders. 

“Uh-huh, jus’ like this.” Clint agrees, “or if you touch my nipples…or cock near the end. Right when you wanna give it to me good.” 

And Phil might have pushed in a little rougher than intended, might have struck Clint’s prostate if the Hawk’s cry means anything - might have had to think about something other than how beautiful Clint is laid out under him. 

“Course…if y’like…you –oh fuck yes -you can come and then ride me.” And isn’t that just an idea. It’s one that has Phil pumping faster, hands digging into Clint’s thighs, his hips. He’s extra mindful not to hit that pleasure spot too often not wanting to tip the café owner too far over as he satisfies his aching cock. 

“Yeah, that’s it, Phil.” Clint cajoles, crooning sweetly, reaching around to grasp handfuls of Phil’s ass and urge him on, “Just –ah! Just take what you need.” And he can’t help tightening up around the thick, lovely cock in him as Phil pounds him into the nest. 

When he comes Coulson is almost silent; just a gasp and a hot gush that paints the inside of Clint’s already slick hole. That warm rush makes Clint cry out, wings lifting to flank Phil’s heaving sides, head bent back and a clawed hand tight around the base of his cock to ward off an orgasm of his own. His other hand tracing softly up and down Phil’s back as his sides heave through the biggest orgasm he’s had in a long time. 

Eventually the human slowly slips free –earning a slight whimper from Clint. He lets himself watch slick and come dribble from the Hawk’s loose hole and he feels himself twitch –an attempt to get back in the game. 

“Hey,” Clint sooths him onto his side, face to face, brushing some of the sweat-damp hair from Coulson’s brow, “You still up for a ride?” 

And really how could Phil not be. 

“How could I say no?” he says, “I’m not 16 anymore,” Phil nods towards his soft cock wet with come and slick, “But I’m going to enjoy this very much.” 

Clint leans in to steal a kiss, to steal many kisses; his hands roaming Phil’s body before reaching behind himself on the sweat-damp tangle of sheets and pillows to gather up his own slick. Phil moans as Clint’s fingers gently circle his hole. He’s put enough of a glamour on to blunt his claws, easing that smooth slick around and in just to the first knuckle. Phil’s loose from the orgasm but tight enough from lack of practice to need a good minute or two of care to open him up enough for a second finger. 

Phil’s thrown his thigh over Clint’s, eyes closed softly as he gasps, rocking back on those fingers. 

“Feels good?” Clint wonders. 

“Feels great –don’t stop.” Phil assures. Like Clint would. Like Clint could. 

A third finger and Coulson’s leaning into it. Barton’s careful of his prostate until he’s ready to give it a firm rub sending the man beside him into shivers and keening wails. 

“There you go, that’s just right, Phil. Think you’re ready, darlin’?” 

And Phil can only nod because Clint’s fingers are still in him and it’s full but about to get fuller. He lets Clint sit up, mourns the loss of his fingers but welcomes the sight of him, thighs open, cock standing red and hot. 

“C’mere, Phil.” And Coulson goes as Barton gathers more slick to coat his cock and rub into Phil’s twitching rim for good measure. 

The sink down onto Clint’s cock is hot and perfect; Phil doesn’t want to take it slow but Barton’s easing his hips; those strong arms Coulson had admired doing enough work to hold him up. 

“Easy,” He sooths, letting Phil have just a little more of his cock, “You can take as much as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Nether am I.” Phil assures and it makes Clint’s heart swell as the human above him takes the rest of him to the hilt, his ass snug to the cradle of Barton’s hips. The Hawk’s wings lift in pleasure making a warm world covering them both. Safe, secure, here. 

Phil’s heart relocates to his throat as he reaches out to run fingers gently through those downy-soft fathers. It earns a deep moan from Clint and a soft chuckle from Phil. 

“Gorgeous.” Coulson assures. 

The pace they set is slow and interspersed with kisses. Clint takes the time to nibble Phil’s jaw and as the man starts to move he can’t help groan out into the silence of the apartment. It’s a treat to see officer Phil Coulson in his arms, in his nest like this. The man’s a professional even here; his pace just right to drive Clint to distraction and straight into satisfaction. 

Content to let Phil bounce in his lap, content to taste the skin at his throat, his nipples, his lips, Clint coasts on that wonderful tight heat that’s swallowed his cock. But soon Phil’s panting again, whining high in his throat. He must be getting sensitive and Clint’s curious if one more orgasm can’t be wrung from him tonight. 

Hands slipping down to Coulson’s hips, Clint helps tilt the angle of his cock until it strikes Phil’s prostate sending the man howling and riding harder and faster. 

“That’s it, darlin’ –gorgeous.” The café owner praises. He’s lifting his own hips into Phil’s thrusts now, chasing his own orgasm while fighting for Phil’s. The human in his lap wails, hands reaching to press into Clint’s back right where his wings meet skin and oh that’s good. 

“Phil-!” He gasps, “Oh –oh fuck, more!” 

And how can Coulson say no?

It’s right there between them –that orgasm Clint’s been chasing -coiled and coming up fast; even Phil can feel it as Barton’s cock hardens that much more in him. Phil finds Clint’s sensitive nipples with his teeth and pinches just enough to earn a yelp and a few good, deep thrusts from the Sidhe-Shifer under him as he keeps massaging his wings. Clint’s stumbling over the rhythm he’s set, digging in deeper, pushing in harder and taking Phil’s shoulder in his mouth to bite down on –all the while striking the man’s prostate. 

Clint’s wings spread higher –reaching for the ceiling in that moment of utter pleasure.

Phil might have screamed as Clint came in him; hot and fast, swamping his insides. And it might be the attention to his prostate or the perfect cock still ploughing him deep, or the hot come leaking out of his hole –or just that it’s Clint –but Phil comes again, almost dry. The world around him whiting out. 

Clint’s clutching the human –his human –close as they come back to themselves. The air in the bedroom is overwarm and tinged with sweat; their ears ring with the thunder of their breaths. Eventually Clint tips them back onto the nest, Phil on top of him, Clint’s softening cock slipping free to a gush of come. 

“That…wow.” Phil tries for words, “Think you might have taken my head off after all.” 

Clint can’t stop the snort of laughter as Phil moves off of him to lay boneless beside him in the nest. It morphs its way into a yawn as the Hawk starts to fall into sleep. The world outside the apartment and it’s monsters long forgotten as he pulls his human into his arms.

“So I broke that first promise - but I’m keeping the others.”


	13. Flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry this took me longer than I meant it to. Real life has been very busy lately but I'm not giving up on this fic, just a lot happening right now.

Clint’s cellphone rings and he groans, still feeling good and relaxed and warm; Phil’s thigh pushed between Clint’s as he sprawls across the Hawk’s chest –arm protectively slug over Barton’s waste. Despite the nest and their entwined bodies Phil is colder than he should be. He’s shivering. 

The phone seems to fade out as Clint gently cups his lover’s cheek singing, “He keeps me warm, he keeps me warm, he keeps me warm –my love,” and hoping it’s enough.   
Phil sighs –still asleep - as the heat spell chases the bone-deep chill away. His body warms from the inside out, his muscles slackening and that tremor ceases. He looks younger in his sleep; Clint reaching over to tuck blankets around Coulson’s bare shoulders. 

The world outside the bedroom window is dark with nighttime and the blinking lights of the city. 

The phone is still ringing. 

“Is something on fire?” Clint grumbles eyes still a little bleary. Something better be on fire because if he has to put pants on, it better be for a reason. 

“Hey boss.” It’s Kate, “Nothing’s on fire –yet –I mean other than the Salamanders, but they were on fire when they got here.” 

Clint’s more awake now; Coulson murmuring half aware in the nest, turning his face into Clint’s chest as though turning his back on wakefulness. “Where are you, Kate?” 

“At the café. You know, where you should be?” The Sidhe sounds put out but also worried. In the background there’s a clamour of voices from a full restaurant. 

Clint’s sitting up now, easing Phil back to the sheets –the officer waking up properly now and looking towards Clint and then his own phone for the time.   
Barton groans, “Kate, I’ve been kinda busy-,” 

“Yeah and now we’re busy. I haven’t seen the café this packed since last Halloween –, Clint it’s not good. Night Folk are talking about the Hunters and the Treaty and not taking it anymore …we need you here.” 

And Kate rarely asks him for help –she’s a strong pureblood and mature even for her young age...enough that sometimes Clint forgets how young she is in the eyes of the Fae. Clint regrets wishing for that fire as he grabs for his pants.   
He feels like a heel for leaving Kate and Wanda to the café for so many nights. He’s got to be the worst boss ever. 

“I’m on my way, Kate. Just…keep them from eating each other before I get there.” Clint assures as he hops from foot to foot getting himself dressed. 

“Somethings wrong?” It’s less of a question. Phil can see the tightness in Barton’s shoulders from where he sits on the edge of the bed. He feels bad seeing those muscles so tense after the two of them had spent time unwinding them not hours ago. And this was not how he imagined waking up in Clint’s nest. With the sun sunk down and the dimness of a fresh night he was thinking maybe dinner –maybe another round? 

Phil’s body shivers –less from the cold in him and more to do with the lingering feeling of Clint between his thighs. It’s a memory he’s going to cherish even once the echo of Clint’s touch has faded. 

“Yeah,” Clint stuffs his cellphone into his pants pocket –he’s snatched up a t-shirt, but just holds it, “Kate’s got a riot brewing at the café ---how are you with flying?” 

Phil follows Clint up the rickety fire escape up up up into the night air and the old roof of Barton’s rundown apartment complex. From inside the city like they are he can’t make out any stars, just the bright blinking lights of the streets below them. The air up here is cool and with a slight fall breeze Phil is glad for his jacket; the curse in his chest a frost making him shiver a little. 

The rooftop is empty as Clint lets his wing unfold from his back –he never put them away and Phil enjoys seeing them tucked against Barton’s strong back. In the darkness he gets a chance to see Clint as himself without that glamour on and in a fleeting moment he hates the disguise for hiding the café owner’s beauty from him, even for a second. Clint should be free to show his wings all the time.  
Those same wings now stretch wide and tall all the way up to the sky in their newfound freedom. They beat once, twice sending air rushing across the rooftops –creamy white undersides flecked with brown. Phil’s eyes widen at the span, the full size of them stretching powerfully towards the sky and then relaxing down towards Clint’s sides. They’re gorgeous. 

“You’re not carrying me like some bride.” Phil deadpans as Clint approaches which is enough to make the café owner choke on a laugh. A warm husky sound that makes Phil’s cheeks pink. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiles, turning for Phil to wrap his arms around his neck. The faint light of the rooftop catches on the muscles of Clint’s back, the ones Phil had run his hands over, dug his finger into, held on to so tightly when they made love only hours ago. 

“I’m not going to get in the way of your wings?” He asks, pushing the remembrance away as he gingerly tries to keep himself from brushing up against the wide feathers. 

“Shouldn’t.” Clint’s voice is a smile over his shoulder as he stretches up onto his tiptoes, wings beating sharply, experimentally, before tucking them in, as he moves towards the edge of the rooftop –his warm, calloused hands tucking around to hold Phil to him. 

“’Shouldn’t’ -? Barton?” And they’re tipping forward, gravity doing a lot of the work to pull them down, down, down. Phil’s cold breath catches in his lungs, a cry caught like a rock somewhere in there as the ground rushes up to meet them. 

Oh this was a bad idea. 

A very bad idea. 

They should definitely have taken a car-! Phil’s brain shouts at him. Clint was literally just arrested for exposure and here they were –wings and all plummeting to their deaths in plain sight--!

Suddenly Clint’s wings –those vast limbs –snap open and in a rush they’re wrenched upward. Phil’s stomach relocates into his throat as the ground is abruptly the furthest thing from them. The night sky and its remaining stars yawn above with the threat of swallowing them whole. Clint’s wings are beating again –strong, deep strokes –his arms stilled tucked against Phil’s back to hold him fast; making sure he didn’t lose the officer on the way up. Coulson’s eyes water against the wind they’re cutting through, but he can see the city –his city –below dressed in streetlamps and office buildings. The warmth of the pavement beneath them and the exhaust from air vents make lovely thermals, even in the night that buoy the two higher; above the rooftops and carparks and roadways. Somewhere down there are the people and the Night Folk are all going about their evening lives and Phil has never been this high up without an airplane. 

Barton wheels them away from the taller of the buildings, keeping them in the darkest patches of the night and away from any prying eyes. Phil ducks his head into Clint’s feather-clad shoulder against the dizzying look down. 

He’s flying –they’re flying. 

The great breadth of Clint’s wings stretch out beside him on either side; the downy feathers lightly brushing against his neck and arms as Barton puts them in a glide. The Hawk whistles a tune and Phil’s sure a few lines from a song but he only catches bits of it in the rush of wind. He’s starting to wonder how they’re going to get down when he feels the beginnings of their slow, gliding decent. The drop in altitude makes Phil’s ears pop a little. The lights below them change, the street seems to appear from nothing. Those strung lamps, the cobbled stone and the yawning alleyway that leads to the café all laid out beneath them. 

Clint whirls them a little, letting their decent slow until his feet gently touch the cold stone. Phil doesn’t unwind himself from Clint’s shoulders right away though Barton takes his hands from Phil’s back and lets his wings fold in gently. 

“Thank you for choosing Barton airlines,” Clint’s joke is a whisper in the darkness earning himself a heatless glare from the officer who finally lets himself stand and get his legs under him again. 

“Could have used more pretzels in coach.” Phil grumbles. 

The café is packed; Clint thinks Kate might have overestimated last Halloween. A handful of Dwarves stand near the doorway; hands as thick as hams clutched around pints of beer, their eyes beady little jewels amongst their thick facial hair and eyebrows. A few Sphinx have their paws up at the tables, wings folded in neatly at their lion-like backs. Clint guides Phil past a trio of Fauns, and two Banshee to get closer to the bar where Kate is eyeing the ruckus. 

“And I say we’ve had about enough of it!” A Minotaur slaps his fur-covered hand into the heavy wooden table near the center of the café. His nose glints with two gold hoops, his horns polished and sharp. A cry of agreement comes up from the crowd –howls and hoots and cheers.   
The ghosts that have taken up by the side tables applauding though no sound comes from their translucent hands. 

“You made it.” Kate greets. She looks tired, she looks impatient, she looks worried. This kind of gathering could easily turn nasty and if any Hunter even thought of showing up they’d be skinned on principal –such was the mood in the air. 

“It’s been like this all night.” Wanda sees Clint from the till where she’s ringing up a Gargoyle’s tab, “They’re sick off the disappearances Clint –the Hunter’s aren’t doing their jobs and too many of their children are gone.” 

A roar goes up from the crowd as a Vampire at the head gets to the height of his rant. 

“Are there magic rules about assembling without a permit?” Phil wonders. 

“I’ll handle this,” Clint grumbles, clambering up onto the smooth bar –Kate eyeing him with concern, hands out to spot her employer from falling. 

“No –I just wanted to know if I can spike their drinks with a Calm Down spell-,”She sputters, trying to avoid getting feathers in her face as Clint balances himself. 

“We’re not drugging anyone. Besides, I’m great at speeches.” Barton assures in a way that makes Phil question if that’s really true. 

The look on Kate’s face says it’s probably not. 

The crowd takes a moment and a good sharp whistle from the café owner to calm down and actually pay attention but once he’s got them Clint’s got every eye in the place; wings spread, eyes sharp. 

“Hey –look, I got arrested this morning,” He starts out, “I got arrested and kinda roughed up. I know that’s been happening a lot and I know that we’re all pretty mad about it. I’m mad about it.” 

A murmur goes up in the crowd like a small wave of grumbles. A few hisses at the sound of their local businessman getting arrested.

“We’re not gonna to stop looking for your kids –we’re not gonna let the Hunters just rough people up anymore. The Stark’s had this idea about doorways and whatever to keep Night Folk traveling safe but there’s been a bit of a hitch ---so until then travel in groups, stick together and keep your kids close. Guys, I know we’re not always all friendly with each other outside the café,” A few eyes drift between the Vampires and the Wolves, the human Wizards and the in-human Night Folk, “But we gotta set that aside until this gets sorted out, okay?” 

“Barton’s right.” The Minotaur pounds his great fist into the table making glasses and plates jump, “We stand together and we protect our own. From tonight on -old grudges aside! Night Folk for Night Folk!”   
The screams and howls and shrieks that rose up made Phil shudder, the cold in him biting fierce. The café customers rise, some together, others alone, and they took their new-found focus to the street. A few toss down bills, shiny rocks or whatever half-pennies and trinkets they   
usually paid with scattered to the tabletops. 

The now-mob chanting, calling, howling a cry of ‘Night Folk for Night Folk!’ until the café stands with toppled chairs, empty tables and vacant seats –save for a couple of ghosts who didn’t seem like they were leaving until they finished their empty drinks.   
It was the symbolism really. 

Clint’s left standing on the bar, Wanda and Kate staring at the empty café. Coulson, bemused at what had just transpired, and worried that this was likely not the reaction Clint had been aiming for and what consequences lay beyond the café door. 

“Great job, boss.” Kate sighs. 

Clint’s phone is still ringing. But this time when he digs it out of his pocket it’s a different sort of trouble waiting. 

“I know where Peter is.” Natasha’s voice has death in it and a shiver runs up Clint’s back. The Widow may be on magical probation but heads are going to roll if that kid has even a scratch on him and Natasha will deal with the consequences. 

“Go on.” Kate sighs, “Deal with whatever this is –we’ll hold the fort.” 

Wanda hands over another golden sling ring from the till: warm and weighty in Clint’s clawed hands as he grips it. 

“Another tab?” Phil asks; skeptically wondering if anyone besides him pays in cash. Maybe he’s been a fool this whole time and should just start paying for drinks in small household items. 

“Beats flying all the way there.” Clint shrugs as he slips the ring onto his fingers and hums, “Oh, who’s house are you haunting tonight?” This time the sparks jump to life right away; a swirling shower of embers round and round until a hole appears, showing off the street beyond. The few remaining patrons watch on as the air ripples and the café warms with the smell of clear skies and fresh straw. The ghosts clap their hands approvingly but no sound follows. It’s the symbolism, Clint supposes. 

With a little more experience under his belt, Phil doesn’t hesitate. Stepping through the portal and out into the cool night air he finds Natasha, Steve, Sam and Tony waiting. Clint just behind him –sparks dancing out into the sidewalk at their feet.   
The area they’ve emerged into looks like a shipping district –boxlike buildings, no windows, no traffic –just a grey field of cement yawning out between warehouses. Not a human or Hunter or Nightfolk in sight. 

At least –Clint thinks –they won’t have to explain the light show this time. 

Natasha’s spiders scuttle over the bricks, the chipped paint and the graffiti of the buildings. The Widow keeps her eyes on them, but her senses on the world around her. The yard around the warehouses may be devoid of people but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to see. 

“Place stinks of bleach.” Sam grumbles. 

“No accident there, Rover -I followed the money, this place hasn’t been in service for years.” Tony looks smug around his sunglasses and hoodie –possibly what passed as a disguise for the head of SI as he wanders around abandoned reinstate, “HYDRA doesn’t want anyone sniffing around.” 

“All the more reason to be sniffing around then,” Steve’s a man on a mission. The Alpha has his claws out and it’s a sure sign that he’s just keeping it together –just waiting for a fight. Phil begins to realize that Night Folk are magnets for trouble. 

“We need to get moving,” Steve’s voice is hushed but tense –stern even, “Hydra might already know we’re here.” 

“Wolf-man’s got his tail in a knot because a little spider told him his mate’s in there.” Tony explains to Phil with a huff as though his coming along was a great inconvenience and he’s surrounded by idiots. Sam growls low in the night, “Hey –we’re trying to be sneaky here, Rin Tin Tin –you wanna Wolf out and blow our cover, you do it on your own time.” 

“I assume there’s a plan somewhere in here?” Phil askes quietly trying to keep the volume of their snooping party to a dull roar. 

“We go in, get Peter and Bucky and we leave.” Natasha says like it’s a simple, clean-cut thing. Phil doubts that it will be; they’re going in with less intel then he’d like and from years of experience nothing –from a bust to a trip to the precinct photocopier –ever goes as smoothly as you want. 

“We’re taking down HYDRA along the way.” Sam assures. He looks human enough but in the night dimness his eyes catch whatever glints of light making them glow unnaturally. 

“We know next to nothing about HYDRA besides that some Hunters are in on it –we save our people, we get out, we kill them when we know more.” Natasha argues. Phil is starting to get the sense that he’s thrown in with a group of Night Folk who operate in very different ways and if tonight is going to succeed they’re going to need to get on the same page. 

“We are not letting them get away with taking our people –.” Steve’s voice is all Alpha; it would be a disgrace for him as the leader of his Pack –his family –to not make a fearful example of anyone, Night Folk or human, who would dare harm what was his. 

“Our priority tonight is Peter and Bucky,” Clint reminds, “Nat’s right, we’ll be able to see this better from a distance; there’s still all those missing Night Folk –make enough noise and we could lose any chance at finding them.” 

“Just so we’re clear –we are killing some people tonight –that’s still on the table? Asking for a friend.” Tony quips and Phil has had about enough. He’s been a cop long enough to know that going in scattered is going to get somebody killed –someone has to take the reins. 

“Enough.” The cold in his chest screams as he steps into the crowd of tense Night Folk, “Tonight is about getting Bucky and Peter back. Lethal force is only for anyone getting in the way of that objective.”   
By some stroke of luck the Night Folk seem to be listening to the one human cop; Phil’s chalking it up to stunned awe and that soon enough they’ll shake it off and go back to bickering, but until then, “Natasha; you have eyes in this place –I want you taking point. We move on your call. If you can get as much intel as your spiders can gather. Steve and Sam; you’re taking point –we’re looking to avoid confrontation if we can help it but if it comes down to it you’re the front line.” 

Steve seems to accept this and Sam along with his Alpha. 

“Clint and Tony: when we find Peter and Bucky we don’t know what condition they’ll be in, you and I will be helping to get them out and covering them as we leave.” 

The Night Folk seem to take this well, “If things go FUBAR, our sole priority is getting Bucky and Peter –do what you need to do but we’re not leaving anyone behind.” 

Peter wakes up sore and shivery and cold. The damp straw under his cheek is dirty and he’s scrubbing drool and dirt from his face, struggling to sit up and promptly smacking his head on the low cage ceiling. His leg a loud, throbbing pain; the blood clotted and scabbed over his torn pants. His breath comes tight and hesitant as the Spider spins silken webs to cover it tight. He vaguely remembers much of the fight; the fence, the gash on his leg, the Wolf…the Wolf who is in the cell next to him –now in his skin. 

Peter’s sure he’s asleep; sides rising and falling, the burned skin on his back from where Peter had shoved them into the electric fencing. It must still hurt; it’s all red and raw and weeping –slowly healing. The Spider feels bad about it…but he’d do it again push comes to shove. He wants to believe the Wolf would want him to do it too. Wolves, the ones he’s met anyway –those with Packs to raise them and socialize them -, don’t just go around attacking people. Sure they roughhouse with their own; they snapped and postured but never like this.   
And any healthy Wolf he’s ever seen –which was all of them –don’t stink this bad. Peter can smell the Wolf and it’s an unwashed, wet doggy kind of smell. The Spider tries hard to breath only through his nose so he wouldn’t taste it in the air. 

“Mister -,” He grunts low in the dark, “hey, Mister; I’m real sorry about the fence.” 

The Wolf doesn’t move other than his steady breaths. Peter hopes he hasn’t been magically doped up again; it would seem unfair after everything else. 

“We’re gonna get outta here, Mister. A spider’s gone to get Natasha; and she’s real scary when she’s mad. You’ve never seen her, but I’m pretty sure you’ll think she’s scary too.” The boy sits himself up, leans hunched down in the cage. The Wolf doesn’t comment. Just the silence and the faint hum of electricity follows in the cement cavern their cages sit in. 

It’s the distant sound of a door scraping open that startles Peter; his spider senses altering him to someone coming. Footfalls clad in thick boots, the sickly smell of magics in the air –oily and sour followed by a sickly sweet signature.   
Peter drops himself to the musty floor of his cage and plays possum, his many eyes only cracked open to peer through the gloom at the Hunters who have come. One is tall and broad with a face that resembles ground up hamburger from his left eye down to his chin. Peter isn’t sure what did that to the man but he knows it must have hurt –still might if the man has any feeling left on his face. 

“Get him up,” His voice is gruff, wand out, hands covered in thick rune-carved rings.   
The boy beside him –he looks like a boy next to the brick wall of a man he’s standing with –has a smattering of freckles across his face and hands. He’s holding a wand lit to guide them through the dim room. He looks like chicken-shit; visibly shaken by the idea of going anywhere near the Wolf’s cage.

But he does it anyhow –the big guy muttering his own spells to keep the Wolf down. 

The boy’s hauling the Wolf out awkwardly –the Night Folk easily outweighing him even in his poor state, and dead weight to boot for being groggy. The Hunter boy nearly dropping his prisoner to the ground when he moans. The big man’s boot makes fierce contact with the side of the Wolf’s head sending him to the floor and drooling blood. The same boot presses down onto his marred back. 

“Dogs belong on the floor.” He spits, “Fucking animals.” 

Peter’s shivering with the urge to act but he’s caught in a cage and at a steep disadvantage; his leg a throbbing reminder of how much his time in the ring cost him. 

“Get him up –he’s got another match coming.” This time the cuffs go on, the burlap sack gruffly tugged over the Wolf’s long greasy hair –sure to be tugged off before they thrust him into the ring again. And Peter’s not having it –or he wouldn’t if for the electricity running through the bars on his cage. If only-, 

And then a plan. 

A quick one. 

Likely a bad one. 

But it’s what he has. 

He waits a moment; surely the Hunters will have their hands full with the Wolf, surely they won’t notice if he changes. He’s got to chance it; already Peter’s body is changing, twisting, crunching, already he’s getting smaller and his eyes and legs many. A small spider with red and blue markings. Peter’s spinning silk and shooting it lace after lace against the bars; insulation he hopes, something to keep him from a shock. Sparks shoot out as the silk webbing hits the metal, little zaps of electricity jump and dance out and a few times the Spider gets a jolt for his troubles. Peter wobbles, bucks and tries to keep himself on his eight feet –the Wolf needs help. He needs to get out. He can’t wait for Natasha. 

Soon the bars are coated with enough thread that Peter’s sure he can try. 

Suppose the worst case is he gets shocked within an inch of his life. 

The little Spider holds his breath and scurries through as fast as eight spindly legs can take him ---and out the other side. 

For a moment he stops –Peter has to –just to have that second to realize it worked and he isn’t fried. But the moment is brief. He’s changing fast back into a boy and on his feet and running after the Wolf and the Hunters through the cold damp cement cavern and towards the doors –towards the ring. 

Towards a fight.


	14. Man in the Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. I do intend to finish this work. Thank you for your patience.

“All I had to do was keep him safe.” Steve had said one early morning at the Pack’s farm house. Sam had held his Alpha’s hand, squeezed his fingers in the few morning moments when Steve got to be week without the Pack around to see. “All I had to do was hold him.”   
The sun had filtered into the kitchen and Steve had sobbed quietly while Sam held his hand. 

“We’ll get him back.” Sam’s voice was quiet in the kitchen, “we will.” 

“I know where Peter is.” Natasha’s voice had cut through the spacious apartment of Stark tower. The Wolves had perked up, still guarding the sleep of Clint’s human officer. “And I might have eyes on your Wolf.”   
This had gotten Steve’s attention like nothing else had in the last eternity of Bucky’s absence. The Alpha is up and alert and changing –to hell with nudity –his powerful body moving across the room. He’s tall and blond and muscle and purpose as he stops in front of Natasha.   
“Where?” and, “Are you sure?” falling from his lips in sharp succession. She can see it in his eyes –he needs this. 

“Not fully, no. My spider says the Wolf was in his fur –but his coat matches the picture you gave.” She keeps the part about the blood and the metal arm her spider had reported tucked away carefully to herself –secrets were the Widow’s bread and butter and Steve Rogers was on a warpath. 

She was going to that warehouse to get Peter come hell or high water; that the Alpha thought his Bucky might be there would be enough to get his tail in gear. If it really was his Wolf –metal arm and blood and all –Steve would find out for himself. And death would follow with him.   
Sam looks to his Alpha, wary and worried and hoping. This had to be Bucky –it had to be, for the Pack’s sake. For Steve’s sake. For his own –Sam misses his family.

He’ll tear out the throat of any man or Night Folk who touched his family. 

“Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear the planning of a B&E,” Tony Stark is a man who knows exactly how to make an entrance and become the center of attention and he was doing it now, arms crossed, eyes flashing a little red. 

“You don’t have to come, Stark,” Steve might have made it sound venomous once upon a time, but any grudge the Pack and the Vampire Courts had don’t seem to matter to the Alpha at the moment. 

“Oh, I’m coming with,” Tony assures, “My labs –my Court –just got broken into by some teen-idol with a thing for birds and my work got stolen. The work I was doing to keep Night Folk safe –you want to do a little breaking and entering, save some Night Folk, I’m going with.” 

Steve had looked a little taken back –like he hadn’t expected this from Stark, clearly, and perhaps his view of the Vampire would shift further given time. 

“Maybe the two are tied together.” Coulson’s voice had been a little rough with sleep and he still looked tired as he got up from the bed, “Whoever wanted that thing in your lab –maybe they’ve got something to do with our missing people.”  
Natasha’s phone ringing had cut the discussion off. Clint had been arrested. 

It’s cold –the warehouse is cold, and damp. Phil keeps himself near the center of the group, gun in hand; he’s not fooling himself, Steve and Sam are the big guns, Natasha’s their eyes and Tony and Clint are the rear guard. He’s a human with a gun and some sense of a plan.   
Ducking through the doors had been his idea, getting this band of Night Folk to work together had been his idea…the cold nagging at him reminds Phil every step that this is another dangerous venture on his part. Just like the Wendigo, just like the party of Vampires and the lean figure in Stark’s labs. 

But somewhere in the cold warehouse might be a boy and a Wolf –and clues to many other cold cases. Cold or not, Phil’s going.

Behind them, Clint snags Natasha’s arm bringing the two of them up short. He’s summoned up that bow of his and some arrows from the Café –humming quietly under his breath –and he looks all the more fierce and certain with them in hand. 

“Nothing happens to Phil.” His voice is hushed and quiet in the dark of the doorway to the warehouse. The dim light just catching Clint’s eyes and lighting off the gold there –for a moment, bandaid across his nose and all, the Hawk looked every inch the predator he is. 

The Widow’s eyes miss nothing as she scrutinises the Hawk. This is the favour –the Thank You –he’s finally calling in. She knows better than to ask if he’s sure, she won’t insult him like that but Natasha gives it a good few seconds pause. Only a nod is Clint’s answer. Nothing happens to Phil. 

For a moment the Widow has half a mind to web the officer up to a wall –that would ensure his safety (probably) but she’s seen enough of the human to know he’d find a way out, follow them and get himself in worse. Better to keep him close. Especially since –as it had turned out -Phil Coulson was a safe neutral party. No grudge or political history, no ancient grievance to make unnecessary enemies out of allies (other than perhaps that once upon a time –hells even now –the human might have been prey). Whether he knows it or not that human cop was the one keeping this slap-dash team together. 

In the dimness Phil’s human eyes aren’t picking up much but the soft scuttling sound of many feet against stone speaks of the spiders just out of view in the darkness. They’ll act as tiny security cameras, as guides through the warehouse as the group travels down down down into the building. 

The Wolves ahead of Phil keep sniffing –scenting the air. Even Tony beside him lets his tongue wet his lips every now and then hoping for a taste of something that might give them a sense of direction or what they’re going towards. But all they can smell is thick bleach, like someone scrubbed the cement walls down. 

Surely HYDRA won’t have doused the whole place. 

The tight hallway they’re in branches off into the gloom. Clint doesn’t bother with a spell –he needs the magic he has for whatever might be in the gloom as it is –but Nat and Steve halt the line. Silence. Stillness. The faint rustling of many tiny feet.   
Natasha points them on and they press into the darkness towards the right. The sloping hall leads towards a door thick and heavy and warded for Werebear. Tony sucks in a hiss as they near it and Phil only realises they’ve all stopped walking when he’s a few paces apart from the group. 

“Seals-,” Tony grunts like he’s walked into the worst smell of the century, eyes tearing up, “Like a can of mace and a kick in the balls.” Phil wonders if Tony has firsthand experience with these but decides that he doesn’t need to pursue it here in the dark.  
“Somebody doesn’t want Night Folk anywhere near that door.” Sam elaborates, he’s gone a bit furry and his ruff is standing on end, his eyes catching the dim light and glowing. Steve, beside him looks like he’s making a valiant effort to put it aside and just push through it –seal or not. 

“Huh-,” Phil walks up to the door, “I’m not picking up anything.” Not entirely true, the cold in him is sharp as ever; a little more now that he’s closer to the magic here. But that’s not worth mentioning he reasons. 

“You’re human.” Natasha explains, “Cursed but human.” 

The steal and concreate door is cold to his touch –but not as cold as Phil’s hands. The shivers that have been running through him since they got here dance along his spine but it’s certainly not mace and a kick to the balls. As he’s closer now, Phil can see the black paint; the deep scrawl of interlocking symbols swooping across the door. Funny that some graffiti could put his companions to a standstill and here he is touching it like it’s nothing. 

‘Come’ the cold whispers –tugs at his chest.

Clint had said that he sung to get magic started –that the Hunters used words to make their magic –hand signs and gestures for others…

“Anyone got a knife?” A few looks and some shrugs, but Clint takes out an arrow and passes it along. It’s not magic or anything –just a regular one with a stone carved head. Phil doesn’t have time to admire it though, or to feel bad that he’s likely wrecking the thing, as he sets the head to stone and scrapes at the paint. 

“What’s up, Officer?” Tony wonders, “Want to share with the class?” 

“It’s a spell –the lines are spells, like Clint’s songs are spells –so…cut it off. Interrupt the paint and it’s not going to do…whatever it’s doing.” Coulson reasons. 

“And you’re certain cutting it off won’t make it into a new spell or cause it to explode?” Natasha wonders but her voice sounds light and teasing almost like she’s chastising a student but knows they’re safe in their mistake. 

Phil halts a moment still –hands frozen around the arrowhead. 

“It won’t.” She confirms. 

It’s slow going, scraping a way in the dark, but soon the patch of paint Phil’s been worrying chips away in flakes and patches. The spell stutters; Steve can feel it. The two Wolves pull closer as the mace sensation fades. Finally after long minutes that stretched out longer in the gloom the spell sputters its last and caves; now it’s just paint on a wall. 

Clint beams at Nat in a proud way and she swats his arm before falling into step with Coulson and Steve. 

“No matter what we find in there –we need you.” Phil reminds in a hushed whisper tinged with cold. The Alpha only growls low. 

“I’ll do the honors.” Tony glides past them and pulls at the handle. The door opens with little resistance, a few grumbles here and there but not the whining shriek of rusty hinges. The sight that greets them isn’t pleasant. 

The floor is gritty cement beneath their feet, the room a yawning cavern before them… and row on row of cages; big and small, older and new spread out before them. The stench is enough that Phil can taste it –Sam gags and covers his face with his clawed hands. The cold in the room setting Coulson’s teeth clattering louder than he’d like; nothing good was or is in here. The faint lighting in the cavern is enough for a human to see by and more than enough for the Night Folk –but it leaves deep shadows and pools of darkness around where the cages sit cheek by jowl. 

Nobody talks as Natasha takes the lead, passing them by cages with thick bars and thin ones, mouldy hay damp and festering. Clint flinches back from the first one; too much like the circus, just five pennies to see. Phil notices and bumps shoulders with the Hawk –forgoing words –but Clint can see in his face that he’s asking. 

Barton slips his clawed hand into Phil’s and squeezes his cold fingers. At the touch of cold skin Clint considers a heat spell but he’s sure they’re going to need his magic at some point –as meager as it is –and if he uses it now…who knows who might be alerted. 

“This -,” Sam’s voice is quiet and anguished; “They’ve had all kinds of folk here.” 

“Think any of the missing Nigh Folk were here?” Phil asks softly. 

“Not sure.” Steve admits, “Too many smells.” 

Its a few more rows of this horror that Natasha stops, her spiders pointing her to the cage with webbing spun up around the lower bars. 

“Peter was here.” She says, kneeling gracefully down. Her face impassive but the freezing in Phil’s blood rises. She tries to touch the bars but hesitates at the markings on them. 

“Clever kid –he webbed ‘em up to avoid a shock.” Tony’s with her, a light whistle on his lips at the Spider’s clever work. Natasha may look calm but it’s deadly; like the sea before a storm or the stillness of a forest as a big predator comes through. Every wise man would make himself scares and small as the Widow passed. 

Steve is what breaks the silence. The smells in the room may be too much but still not enough –never enough –to hide Bucky from him. The cage beside Peter’s isn’t big enough for a Wolf to stand in or walk but it’s got his Mate’s smell and sweat and…torn fur… Sam gags again -. 

“Easy there, Alpha -,” Tony says eyeing the big Wolf as his breathing quickens, jaw set in anger. 

Someone was going to die tonight –Tony knew it would only be a race between Natasha and Steve and Sam to see who got there first. 

“Bucky was here,” Sam affirms scenting around the cage and already moving towards the drag-marks on the ground where men had half-carried him away. Steve’s with him, a growl low and deadly in his throat. 

“We need to stick together here,” Phil moves to catch Steve. The Wolf whirls only to match eyes with Barton who has stepped up between them to keep a pissed Alpha off his human. 

“Bucky was here.” Steve says in both relief that he could be found and outrage at the state of things.

“And we’re going to get him and Peter - but we need to stay together,” Clint tries to reason. 

“Don’t bother, featherbrain,” the Vampire shrugs, standing fluidly beside Natasha, “You had to know once he got the scent everyone else would come second.” 

The jab might have hurt on any other day –Steve might have thrown something back at Tony and let that old Vampire Wolf rivalry roar back up but Bucky is in this building –this shit hole –was in this cage that smells like piss and greasy fur and mouldy hey ----, and how if he’d kept him close like he should have this would never have happened. 

“Steve-,” Sam says and the Alpha turns back to his pack mate, “We’ll meet up with you again once we’ve got Buck.” 

It’s a promise to Clint’s ears if he ever heard one –hate it though he might that it still means Steve’s leaving them – so he calls, “I’ll hold you to it.” And then the Wolves are gone. 

“Great –this is going so well –don’t you think this is going well?” Tony’s smile is cheap and Natasha doesn’t dignify it with a response. 

The rustling of something catches them off guard a moment and the dank, dim room stills, eyes turning towards the far end of the sea of cages. 

Phil eyes Natasha’s spiders, “Think they can have a look?” 

“Way ahead of you.” The Widow murmurs. 

It’s the waiting that kills them but when Natasha moves so does the team. The sight that greets them is both a weighted relief and…an uncertain curve ball in Phil’s planning. 

Three sets of wide-eyed children peer up through the gloom of their cells. They smell; even Phil can tell that, they’re scared but they’re alive. Two girls and a boy –none of them human. But Phil recognizes Gabriella and little Eman. A sphynx, Eman’s paws are touched with dark claws and what was likely a glossy coat when she was home in her parent’s loving arms. Her stubby wings have been clipped and some of her feathers removed ---Phil doesn’t want to guess what for. 

Gabriella’s hair of vines and thorns and flower buds looks droopy and deprived of sunlight. But she hasn’t taken her eyes off Phil or the rescue party since they got here. She’s defiant, even now. Ready. Strong, though wilted. 

And the boy…a cyclopes, blinking up at them warily ----he can’t be more than twelve. 

“It’s okay -,” Phil says, crouching and making himself small, “we’re going home.” 

>>>>\------------------------------------->

Peter’s in and out of human form, crawling up along the cold vaulted ceilings and as far away from the lights as he can be. The humans below are strides ahead still half-carrying the Wolf along. The Spider could have tracked the Night Folk by stench alone –but at least he hasn’t lost them. The path winds and curves a little and there are a few sets of doors before Peter realizes they’re dragging towards the tunnel that leads to the ring. Somewhere he’s desperate not to revisit and is sure he’ll be no help in. 

Thinking fast and following a slight draft, the Spider slips through a crack in the walls and carries himself up up up into the roaring stands and beams above the ring. No one below notices a tiny spider turning into a boy. 

“Hey, fellas.” Peter waves quietly to a few brown arachnids who have made their webs high up, “Sorry to drop in –wouldn’t happen to know who’s going in there next?” It’s a long shot but one of the spiders starts to spin its web up into some letters that spell MAN.   
Doesn’t mean anything to Peter but he thanks the spider anyhow before settling in to scope things out. 

The ring is encircled by fencing –Peter remembers it from the ground, from the inside; not like this high up in the dark corners out of sight of the Hunters come to cheer. They smell like magic and beer and cigarettes and are louder than the kids at a homecoming game----and many times more deadly. Peter knows if he’s caught he’s done. There won’t be any re-dos. 

They might even throw him back into the ring with the Wolf. Peter shudders a little. 

Quiet, still, little one –Natasha had taught him. And so tonight he’s quiet and still, clinging to the cement.

But when the heavy arena doors open and the announcer bellows into the mic it’s to the appearance of a lanky man in tattered purple track pants who staggers out opposite the haggard Wolf. 

>>>>\------------------------------------------>

The way out of the cavern hadn’t been complicated, but the tunnels and pathways that snaked through the building are. Ultimately it was Tony and Natasha’s spiders that had gotten them along a path that lead towards…well towards a grand stand. They had argued hushed but heavily about aborting the plan and taking the kids out of here –or risking a portal to get the kids out before going on for Peter. 

“We are not leaving without him.” Natasha had heard enough from her spider and seen enough of this place to know they were getting Peter out tonight. Period.  
In the end it was agreed, begrudgingly, that a portal was too risky; that Natasha’s spiders would lead them to Peter –no detours, no HYDRA, nobody. If it got too hot –even the tiniest bit warm –they were gone and would be back for Peter.   
It was the scent of hot blood that let Tony know they were…well…near some kind of crowd and near some kind of trouble –though Natasha’s spiders assured her that this place was safe. Safe; Natasha knew, was relative. The Cyclops boy –Todd; they’d managed his name at least but not much else from him –and Gabriella stayed close to Phil. 

“And Charlotte’s Web knows your boy is out there?” Tony eyes the spiders on Natasha’s shoulder. He’s holding Eman in his arms, bouncing her now-human-looking form gently as they stand in the darkness of yet another tight hall. She’s buried her face in his shoulder. 

Natasha nods. Peter was beyond the slim door. So when Tony muttered ‘please be a secret door, please be a secret door-,’ and they’d pressed through not into an immediate crowd of Hunters or HYDRA or whatever the Vampire hushes out a quiet if gleeful ‘yay’. 

A ring of bleachers set up high along a bowl of a ring circled by fencing. More runes to make the fence electrified. They’ve come out just beneath the bleachers right along the fence. Slats of light slice down into their dark world and the light from the ring is near blinding at first. 

“And it gets better and better.” Tony grouses as he peers outward.

The lone man in the ring is thin, lanky and scruffy-looking. Stubble bristles his cheeks, his feet bare and torn, his pants far too big; so much that he’s clutching the waistband to keep them up near the front and back –somewhat failing at both. He looks a little panicked –but not for himself. It’s the new guy that has just been thrust into the ring that the human looks fearful for.

And that terrifies Clint. 

“We need to get up there.” Natasha whispers, pulling Clint and Phil along. 

As they search for a way up to higher ground without being caught, a human voice calls out and the crowd above them goes silent. 

“Longing.”


	15. Bad Plans

“Freight car.” The last word booms. 

“Tell me that’s not Steve’s Wolf.” Clint’s voice is a hush, trying to keep the children behind him and Phil –Phil who has gone colder, his arm trembling badly, his chest burning with it. 

“That’s not Steve’s Wolf.” Natasha’s voice is a quiet thing. 

“She’s lying –just saying that because you told her to ---,” Tony’s eyes peer up through the slats of light cutting down towards the group. He’s clutching little Eman close, her face buried tight against his neck so her dark curls are all they can see. 

From his dim perch Peter’s sure he’s going to watch the scrawny guy die here, the ground dampened red again, but his spider senses are screaming that they are all in far more danger than he knows.   
The Wolf below still shaking and twisting and frothing at the mouth –shuddering through his change can’t seem to help his yelps and screams as he staggers to four paws in the dirt. 

“You don’t want to do this-,” The human’s begging like Peter had and that makes the Spider a little sick. But the crowd below him has worked up into its own frenzy screaming “Fight, Fight, Fight!” 

The Wolf shakes off, hackles bristling with greasy fur, eyes turning to the man still trying to hold up his pants as he shivers. The –paces forward, hackles rising, blind to the smell or maybe overwhelmed by it. Like the sweat in the air, the gangly human shivering there in the ring, the roar of the crowd and the spell words in his head are making his hackles rise. Teeth bared, Bucky snaps at air, his eyes frenzied and locked on the man.

“Kill him!” The crowd screams and jeers, “Tear him apart, mangy dog!” A few beer cans fly, sparks showering from the electrified fence. As the Wolf paces closer, fur bristling, sides heaving, the man groans a broken please, doubles over –forgetting his pants to a heap on the gritty ring floor. The crowd roars; Peter almost misses the gasp of pain as the human they tossed in starts to go green. His body shudders, ripples, muscles jump and veins pop. 

“Ho-ly,” Peter swears, he doubts anyone heard his hushed gasp –the crowd just below him is a roar and chant of ‘Fight, Fight, Fight!’ 

The man in the ring is screaming now, on his knees; a high thing that turns into a bellow, a roar like a landslide up close. His body bulges and grows in fits and starts –arched back, arms, feet, twisting fingers and toes. Everything in Phil is telling him now is the time to leave; his arm is tremoring uncontrollably, his body freezing. Coulson feels a fool for thinking the being in the ring -now more green and growing every second-, was human. No –the giant is anything but human. 

“They have a Hulk.” Tony’s voice is tinged with quiet awe. 

Fists the size of stacked cinderblocks slam into the red-wet flooring –the bellow that rips from the giant’s lungs shudder the walls and everything that could be shaken was shaken. The Wolf –Bucky –too lost to the spell words to give a damn charges. 

“Change of plan,” Phil stutters out through the cold, “Get the kids out –now.” 

Nat looks like she will argue, eyes darting between the ring and their little band, but Clint’s already singing, “Oh lately it’s so quiet in this place, oh darling if you’re not here haunting me I’m wondering whose house are you haunting tonight?” 

The magic isn’t as strong as the sling ring; its’s wobbly, fragile even, but it’s there. A rippling ring of sparks makes a hole in the world right out into the courtyard leading to the café’s bright lights and warm front door. The cool night air is fresh and a relief from the stifling musty tunnels. It’s a risk, a rather big one, especially if HYDRA’s got any magical sensors up to sniff out unwanted spells, but Gabriella and Eman and Todd need to be out of here ---and when Clint really looks at Phil he knows he does too. The officer is shaking, far too cold and pale.   
The hand pressed to Phil’s chest and the heat spell that follows is…not as effective as it was even days ago ---even Coulson can tell. It’s not working anymore. But it’s taking the worst away and for now that will be enough. 

“Take the kids, go get Kate and Wanda.” Clint’s warm clawed hand on Phil’s cheek is gentle but not compromising. 

“I’m not leaving you here-!” Phil protests. He can’t stand the thought of leaving Clint in this horror show. The giant above them roars sending his ears ringing, the crowd howls and chants and Coulson’s not going to leave Clint to this-,

“You found the kids –you did that –they’re safe, and you’re gonna keep em’ that way.” The kiss Clint slams into Phil’s lips is firm and wanting but short. “Take them to Kate –I’ll be right behind you.” 

“Be safe.” Phil says, turning to take Eman from Tony and rally Gabriella and Todd through the glowing portal. It closes –flickers out with a snap before Clint can say the words back. Tony’s casting looks above them, willing the crowd not to have noticed the little light show ---but   
it seems HYDRA only has eyes for the Hulk above them. 

Bucky howls, red eyed and hungry, going for the Hulk’s unprotected shins. The brute may be big and one hit will flatten the Wolf for sure, but Bucky’s got speed. First blood is his. The giant’s roar of pain is enough to make the cage shiver as he makes a thick grab for Bucky’s tail, just missing as the Wolf leaps up onto his exposed back. Sharp teeth and claws carve into green flesh and Hulk throws himself back-first into the electric fence. 

“So, that new plan,” Tony’s voice is laced with urgency, half undetectable by the booming voice of the hulk and the ruckus the crowd is kicking up, “we find your kid, and we get the hell out of here.” 

“Steve and Sam-,” Clint tries to argue, already following Nat towards the back of the bleachers they’re currently using for cover.

“Anything that sets foot in that ring is paste or dog food, Robin Hood.” Tony assures, “Unless you know a lullaby that can put a Hulk under ---and magic us a muzzle.” 

Natasha’s spiders are spinning webs, drawing lines of silk –little black and brown blots in the darkness moving up and down invisible lines. 

“Figured we’d get up there and knock a few heads until someone gives us what we need.” Clint admits. 

“Your plan sucks.” Natasha says.

“I’m going to pretend that wasn’t pointed at me.” The Vampire feigns hurt. 

“Clint, I hope you know a really big lullaby. Tony and I are going to get Peter and remove anyone in the way. And anyone who’s not-,”

“Natasha,” Clint warns. This little B&E is more than likely violating her parole. She kills a human, even one, outside of her legal hunts…there’s not going to be any more clemency. The Treaty will see her dead and Clint can’t save her a second time. 

“Tony’s right -,” 

“I want that in writing. I’m going to frame it -, maybe put it above my bed.” Tony cuts in, hands splaying like he’s already imagining a picture frame. 

Natasha tosses the Vampire a look before going on. “I’ve been a weapon long enough to know something big like this isn’t going on undetected. It’s being allowed.” 

Clint dares a glance back at the Wolf, clawing at the Hulk’s face; a heavy hand grabs and throws the maddened Bucky across the ring and still he keeps coming. The Hulk screams, rages, blood and hair torn across his brow. 

And still Bucky keeps coming.

“This was how it was going to end for all of us.” She says, “Dead or in a cage.” 

>>>>\-------------------------------->

Peter’s body itches to flee or jump into some kind of action; his spider-sense is on fire; it HYDRA on one side and a cage with a rabid Wolf and Hulk on the other. One of those two down there is going to die and his money is not on the Wolf. The guy might have tried to chew his face off…but he’s probably not that bad a guy. And no one deserves to be stamped into jelly. 

The giant’s come close a few times –his feet leaving deep dents in the floor ---the crowd hollering and raising such a noise that the Spider is sure he could have dropped out of the shadows anytime and they’d never have noticed. 

“Okay –okay plan, gotta make a plan.” Peter whispers to himself. Natasha would be here soon –she had to be. 

The scream the Wolf lets out as he’s grabbed and slammed into the ground is one Peter feels in his soul.

“Okay. Plan.” It’s still a bad one but it’s all he has. Dropping down into the stands is easy enough, webbing up the two nearest HYDRA agents. They protest, but tied down by webbing like they are its choked out by the rowdy calls of the spectators. He’s swinging, webs slinging, soaring past them and over the fence that rings the arena ---this is such a bad idea. Such a bad -,

The howling of the crowd falters as he lands in the red damp earth of the arena –a place he’s never wanted to see himself in –right between the Wolf and the Hulk. He’s sure some of the shouts from the audience are more than a little surprised but he’s busy webbing up two cinderblock fists to the electric fence. The shock traveling down them isn’t enough to really hurt the beast but it’s sure enough to make him mad and for the Wolf at his back to turn frothing, snapping teeth Peter’s direction. 

“Woah -come on, mister, I’m trying to help!” He yelps, dodging just in time. The Hulk’s screaming, thrashing, tearing at the sticky webbing and wrenching himself free from the fence. This was a very very bad plan. Skipping across the dirt, the boy backflips over the oncoming Wolf and tucks into a roll between the Hulk’s lumbering legs –the giant’s body throwing shadows across his vision. He lands, turns, slings webs to snarl the big green leg behind him. Pulling tight Peter hears the indignant roar from the giant as it trips, tumbles, hits the ground enough to make the Spider’s body jump –the whole arena jump. 

If the audience had any misgivings about a third combatant they’ve long since gotten over it –but Peter’s not dumb enough to think no one’s gone to check on his cage. The clock’s ticking, he needs this over. 

“I think we found your boy.” Tony says. The trio have reached the lip of the bleachers. Two HYDRA goons are webbed up tight but it’s the ring below that has the Vampire’s attention –the attention of every man and Night Folk present really. Natasha had been ready to snap a few necks but every single one is turn toward the fight. 

“Oh futz.” Clint swears quietly, drawing his bow and knocking an arrow –getting ready to shoot…at something…HYDRA, Bucky; bloody and rabid, or the Hulk blind with rage. He’s so glad Phil’s back at the café and not here. 

“Clint -,” Natasha’s voice is urgent, they’ve just been spotted, “We need a song.” Her glamour completely falls away as a heads start to turn. 

Peter curses his gym class for not preparing him for fighting literal giants. Vaulting over the Wolf and onto the Hulk’s big green back, he clambers fast; the green beast turning and twisting to get a grab on him. 

“Hulk SMASH tiny Spider!” His scream of frustration booms out through the ring. 

“Sir, you need a licence to operate that-,” The webs Peter shoots anchor a fist before more to cover the giant’s eyes. The roar up close passes deafening and moves into all-encompassing. Peter’s ears still ringing as he leaps from shoulder to shoulder –trying to dodge hands that could crush him –would crush him –he needs this to work. 

“Come on, big green –you’re sooo close, bet you can’t catch-,” The Wolf –fuck he’d almost forgotten about the rabid beast below. “Worst roommate ever!” Peter yelps as the Wolf tackles them to the ground, all fur and teeth and the Spider’s throwing him off with a punch to the muzzle ---it’ll hurt and he’d be sorry for it but there’s a Hulk lumbering down on him. 

The neck in Natasha’s grip snaps; she’d have fed but this isn’t what’s happening –hell, she’d have taken her time and pulled every last miserable secret but there isn’t time. It’s been a while since she’s killed like this but just like riding a bike it comes back to her. The calamity around her is matched only by the mess in the ring below. 

Tony’s got an oncoming crowd of HYDRA goons on him –silver rings and spells armed up against the American Vampire –Natasha’s sure he’ll get out of it, just as sure as she knows Clint’s got the two men on his left. One arrow stabs hard and fast into the human’s head and if Clint were the vindictive type it might have been for all the bullshit he’s been through this week –for the kids they found downstairs, for the Wolf and the Hulk and the boy in the ring ----but mostly it’s about making it out of here.   
He needs a song. Fast. 

Something strong; like the way his wing snaps open and breaks the arm of an oncoming man about to cast. Clint’s gotta make it count –Natasha’s going for the fence circling the ring, going for Peter who needs her. And Tony’s dodging spells, calm-looking despite the blood on his hands, despite the numbers ---and Peter’s slinging webs, getting steadily pushed back towards that electric fence by a Wolf and a Hulk. 

And where the hell were Steve and Sam? 

Peter’s seen Natasha now, or at least he thinks he has –maybe he’s seeing things. Wishing, hoping, wanting so much he’s made it real in his mind. But something is definitely going on; the stands aren’t screaming cheers anymore; they’re not howling for the Hulk to pound him into paste or for the Wolf to tear his limbs off…which might be an improvement if it weren’t for the spells zinging off the fence or the screams and taste of blood in the air. 

Human blood. 

It might buy him some time, but with a Hulk and a rabid Wolf on him Peter has bigger problems. He’s almost out of webbing for one, and two the Hulk is only getting madder –and stronger. 

Peter leaps over a fist as it hits the dirt where he was seconds ago, a swift punch to the giant green arm seems to do nothing but piss the giant off more. The Wolf’s metal paw whips out to slash bloody grooves into the boy’s back and he shouts –bites off the pain and jumps away; trying to web up his cellmate’s jaws once and for all…but he’s out. And the Hulk is barreling down on him. Peter has exactly one last play on his mind. It had worked with the Wolf before...with any luck big green and angry will do more than just fry on the fence…maybe, with his weight, his rage, he’ll break it. 

And that’s when the doors to the ring slam open and two new men are in the ring. 

“Oh come on -!” Peter moans. But neither of the men have eyes on him ---just the Wolf.

“Bucky-?” Steve’s voice is hopeful...and pained.

The dark-furred Wolf pants, blood and foam dripping from his teeth. He reeks like unwashed fur and old straw –his coat matted. He’s wild-looking. He’s not their Bucky. 

The Wolf attacks. 

To Steve it’s a graceless thing. No finesse, nothing of the Wolf Bucky used to be –just wild snapping jaws and scoring claws. Bucky’s reddened eyes are empty and spelled over with the magic words the HYDRA men spoke. Sam has changed –his fur rolling black over his body; ready and able to defend his Alpha. But Steve stays in his skin –hoping, as he grapples with the Wolf, that Bucky will remember him. 

He has to remember him. 

Sam slams Bucky off his Alpha, barely avoiding being savaged as he leaps away. Barely avoiding the Hulk who takes a crushing step towards them. The crowd above them is a mess of blood and screams and Clint and Nat and Tony –Steve feels bad for leaving them like this, but Bucky…it’s Bucky-,

“Bucky –do you know me?” He hasn’t put on his Alpha voice, hasn’t thrown his weight around –Steve’s not sure what it would do, if it would even work. And he so wants Bucky to know him, even through the haze.

Bucky’s barking snarl is the only warning as the Wolf attacks, colliding with Sam, with Steve, a ball of fury and fangs and the metal paw that tears into skin and fur alike. 

“Come on, Buck-!” Steve’s yelp is a plead and a command, he’s shoving his arm under the Wolf’s nose, pressing his scent to him. 

Remember. 

Please, please remember. 

“Drove back to town this morning -,” Clint’s voice rings out from the stands, loud and pronounced and calm despite the violence they’re drowning in. “I thought of maybe quittin’, thought of leavin’ it behind.” 

Tony’s ears prick at the twang in the song, his swiped a wand or two from a HYDRA woman and is working on getting that fence’s spells down when he smells the clear skies –Clint’s magic kicking up. 

“Went back to bed this morning and as I’m pullin’ down the blind-,” The song winds around Natasha and her prey who falter under its influence. Clint’s only part Sidhe, not skilled enough to aim something this big; both friend and foe are getting heavy with the song. 

Including the Hulk. He’s trying to shake it off, still hot on Peter’s tail. 

Bucky leaps away from Steve as the Hulk makes another grab for Peter, lumbering across the ring and towards the Wolves. They scatter, letting the giant roar his way through. And Bucky –wild with the fight and the words – keeps on the attack at any target in his way. Including the green giant. 

Teeth flashing, claws bloodied and ready he savages the Hulk’s legs and arms -and the Hulk’s massive hand snatches the Wolf by his body, right around his ribs. 

“BUCKY-!” Steve roars, fur rolling over him as he and Sam go on the attack. 

The giant’s grab isn’t gentle and neither are the blunt teeth that comes to clench and tear at Bucky’s prosthetic limb. 

Bucky screams as the arm is torn clean away.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read. Might need to jump back and fix small plot holes as I work on later chapters.


End file.
